Rift in the Sky

While he had no idea what “anything” might mean to the Strangers and their vast Trade Pact, he wouldn’t say no to a bioscanner and Marcus’ healing technology.

It hadn’t been offered. Nothing would be, Enris realized abruptly. “But not with the Oud. Or us.”

“No.” The Human blew out a breath, then ducked his head to look up at Enris. “Not my idea, Enris. Not a Human one. Before we came, before the Commonwealth reach this far, this space governed by species already here. The First. They made rules for those searching for what remained of the Hoveny Concentrix. The search must be by Triads. Triads must be of different species. Discoveries must be shared. Include Humans. Good rules.” He grimaced. “One not good rule. On worlds with vestigialpopulations, with people who no longer remember the Hoveny existed, or maybe later colonists who never overlapped—lived together—any discoveries belong to the Triads. These,” he pointed to the crate of wafers, “are yours. The Cloisters are yours. The artifacts are not.”

“Do the Oud understand this? That you’ll take what they’ve found?”

“Think so. Hope so. Maybe.” Marcus looked older, weary. “Oud don’t want the artifacts. They want to know what they are for.”

“What is?” the Oud had asked him. Enris would never forget that day. “Why?”

Another sidelong look, something of a smile. “Oud are makers. They want ideas, more and more ideas. What could be made? What would it do? How to make it—they work that out themselves. Busy. Always busy. Like you, that way.”

He bristled. “They are not,” Enris said through clenched teeth, “like me.”

“Not like you,” Marcus agreed, too quickly. “Because some Oud want something else. They want to know why they are here.” His toe tapped the floor.

“Here. At Sona?”

An appraising look. A second tap. “On Cersi.”

It was as if the floor tilted, or the light changed color. Aryl had warned him how mere words could make the Human suddenly strange and terrifying. That if they weren’t careful what they asked, Marcus could change their world the same way. He hadn’t understood.

Until now.

Enris found himself short of breath. “The Oud,” he said finally, firmly, “have always been here. Like the Tikitik. Like us.”

Marcus considered him silently for a moment, then made the gesture of apology he’d learned. “My mistake.”

There was nothing on his face but kindness.

Without touching him, without reaching for the Human’s feelings—certain to cause Marcus pain—Enris couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t need to be. After Marcus Bowman was willing to believe what he’d told him of the Vyna and the Glorious Dead, he, Enris di Sarc, had refused to make a similar leap.

Failing a challenge as real and as important as any he’d faced.

And the Human pitied him.

He pushed the crate on the table closer to Marcus. “Best these stay here. For now.” And stood.

Marcus rose too. “Enris—”

“Don’t—” he began and stopped, ashamed, unsure why.

“I must. Listen to me. I should be more careful what I say. What I ask. I know better. Did Aryl tell you, she ran from me? Almost died because of my foolish words? Because I forget you are not Human.”

Enris clapped Marcus on one shoulder, in Human-fashion. “A mistake we’d never make, my friend.”

I’m done. Finished your snack?

“Aryl,” Marcus announced. At Enris’ startled look, “Your face says so.”

Perceptive in the oddest ways. “Aryl,” he confirmed, then took both of the Human’s shoulders in a gentle grip. “Listen to me, Marcus. Don’t be more careful. Tell us what we should know.” He shook his head ruefully. “But maybe not so much at once.”

“I understand.” But as Enris turned to leave, Marcus held his wrist, palm against bare skin. An invitation. Lowering his shields just enough, the Om’ray sensed goodwill and determination. “Something you must do. Before I leave Cersi. Wait. Wait.” Muttering to himself, the Human rushed away to dig through the disorganized mass of objects on a counter. It was a wonder, Enris thought with amusement, any of the devices continued to work.

“Wait! Must take these. Should have done before.” More muttering.

Enris?

Our Human’s being his confusing self.

He’s not the only one. But she didn’t feel concerned.

Marcus emerged triumphant, clutching what looked like a pair of pink eggs attached by a metal thread. “Here!” He pressed the eggs over his eyes, the thread behind his head, then pulled the device off and thrust it at Enris. “Sleepteach. You learn Comspeak. Both? Maybe no,” he appeared to be arguing with himself. “Not Aryl. Wait for baby. You. You can learn now.” When Enris didn’t take them, unsure, the Human shook the little eggs, making them click together. “Everyone in the Trade Pact uses same words. Use this, you will understand anyone. Everyone.” A fleeting frown. “If it works for Om’ray. Should. Won’t harm.”