Rift in the Sky

No wonder starships couldn’t land anywhere near here, Aryl thought wryly. For all its bulk and history, Norval was a fragile beast, ultimately dependent on pillars and stone no one had seen in centuries.

Except Marcus Bowman. She gripped the slippery memory as the automatics brought the aircar in for a landing. He’d rediscovered the Buried Theater. It had been his place, while he’d been on this world.

Making his the memories Naryn had used to bring them here.

“Amni InterWorld Shopping Concourse, Sun Layer. Your one-stop—” Aryl hit the button to silence the machine voice, though tempted to gesture apology afterward. This was how M’hiray entered the Human part of the world. The automated aircars were everywhere here, buzzing around Norval and Stonerim’s other cities like the insects called flies over too-ripe fruit left outside. They waited for their next passengers in quiet parking areas; the M’hiray owned several such, careful to remove all monitoring devices.

The shopping concourse was the only address Aryl knew, having used the system only once, with Naryn. She didn’t care to be near Humans, in small numbers or large.

She especially didn’t care to be near the ones “influenced” by the scouts. The ones who had only been “encouraged” to trust M’hiray were almost worse.

None of them here.

The concourse lay within a bubble of senglass that erupted from Sun Layer, that cover set to exclude most of the outside world. Why, when the outside was a limited commodity, Aryl couldn’t guess. But much of what Humans did confounded her.

Not shopping. She could understand the pleasure of walking through colorful, changing displays as a couple or in a family group. Most of those here, however, didn’t appear interested in the displays, though a few attracted the most interest. She joined one such cluster around a storefront, curious, only to find it was display of small furred animals, tumbling around one another.

Aryl walked away before teeth showed.

She had a good plan, she told herself, eyes flicking from side to side. There was a restaurant here, with food she’d enjoyed. More importantly, every table had a comport. Safely in her pocket, with the image disk, was the burst Constable Maynard had given her to summon him.

He would come at once, she’d give him the disk, and then she’d return home.

What could go wrong?

The first thing that went wrong was the constable’s arrival—or rather lack of it. Two hours later, on her seventh order of sombay and fifth run to cope with the result, Aryl had began to wonder if she’d misunderstood. It had sounded straightforward. Drop the burst into any comport or reader, he’d know where she was, and he’d come.

She plucked another feather from the decorative bowl and began stripping the soft bits from it, adding to the growing pile.

How long should she wait? she wondered glumly. What if he’d died? How long did Humans live, anyway?

The staff wouldn’t care if she stayed forever. The M’hiray had been told the importance of generosity. Aryl was quite sure they’d never been paid so much for a beverage and her wish for privacy had been taken seriously. No one was seated at the nearby tables. A family that tried had been forcibly removed.

Feather stripped, she pulled out the disk, careful not to press any of the depressions. Small. Ordinary. Old-fashioned, from what she’d seen in the stores that sold such things. There were signs of wear. Scratches on the dull gray metal. None deep. It was sturdily built. Made to last.

To carry a message from a dying father.

Why hadn’t hers sent a message? Why nothing from those left behind?

Enris wanted to know what she dreamed that made her cry in her sleep. Wanted to help her find out, so she’d stop.

Aryl’s finger traced the nicked edges of the disk. Oh, she knew well enough.

She dreamed the end of the world.

Every night.

She dreamed the M’hiray were the last of their kind, survivors of a catastrophe so complete, they couldn’t bear to remember it.

Or that they’d caused.

Dreams like that, Aryl thought heavily, didn’t stop. She’d try to wake up more often, before she disturbed Enris. The baby would help there.

“I came as soon as I could, Femmine.”

Aryl looked up, annoyed to have let herself be startled. Not that it was Maynard’s fault. “I kept busy,” she told him.

His lips twitched as he noticed the ruined feathers. “May I sit?”

Courtesy. She nodded, grateful for the moment to recover her calm. Too much sombay. A server delicately caught her attention and she nodded again to bring him to the table. “A drink?”

“Water, please.”

“For you, Femmine? More sombay?”

Aryl shook her head, queasy at the thought.

“More, ah, feathers?”

“I’ve had enough for now,” she assured him.

Once the server had left an iced pitcher of water and a glass for the constable, Aryl pushed the disk to the middle of the small table. “I need to you deliver this.”

Maynard paused, glass halfway to his lips. “You don’t waste time, Femmine.”