Rift in the Sky

“No.” She tried to think of a more mature response. “No. Not enough!”

“Sent share. Sent enough. YESYESYES. Oud good. Sona waste.”

“ ‘Waste . . . !’ ” Aryl bit her lip, holding back a satisfying but likely useless retort. The accusation made no sense. How could they be more careful with the trickle that arrived at Sona? They took turns filling buckets for the plants and spared little for themselves. She couldn’t remember her last proper bath. If the rest of her Clan hadn’t been suffering, too, she’d have leaped into the Human’s marvelous fresher device. With Enris.

A tendril of hair tickled her ear, expressing its opinion.

Aryl poked it into the net. “We don’t waste a drop,” she told the Oud. “We must have more than you send us!”

It reared and fell silent. A few lower limbs fidgeted. Throughout the clearing, other Oud stopped moving, as if she’d said something remarkable. Well, not all. One vehicle ran into the carts towed by another, both drivers unconcerned by the collision. But otherwise, she felt their attention. Eyes or not.

What had she said?

“ ‘More than,’ ” the Speaker said at last. “Why?”

“To grow food.” Oud lived with Tuana, who’d been farmers. The Grona, also neighbors to Oud, planted fields. The concept couldn’t be new to this one, Aryl thought, exasperated.

“Not fill courseways.”

Courseways. That was what the Tikitik called the shallow stone-lined ditches that crossed the valley floor. The only value they had, so far as Sona’s Om’ray could tell, was to deter rock hunters, who avoided them.

Because in the past they had filled with water.

Water the Oud clearly didn’t want them to have. Was this why it had gone back on its promise, that Sona would have the greater share? Had it realized—or been told by other Oud—what might happen?

What the connection might be—if there was one—she had no idea. Aryl drew herself up and lifted her pendant. “As Speaker for Sona, I promise we won’t fill the courseways if you return more water to the river.”

“Not fill if not water more than.” The creature managed to sound smug.

The not-real were different, not stupid. She usually didn’t forget, having Marcus as an example.

She winced inwardly. So much for her negotiation skills. “We’ll starve!” An exaggeration, given the stores at Sona, but the Oud might not be aware of those. “I thought you wanted us here.”

“Food enough. Water enough. Sona waste.” The cluster of limbs it used for speech folded into a tight knot.

No mistaking the end of a conversation.

I’m done, she sent to her Chosen, keeping her disappointment to herself. They could share the details on the walk home. A slow walk, she decided, in no hurry to explain her failure to Haxel. Finished your snack?

But before she could turn back to the Human’s shelter, the Oud Speaker lowered itself and approached her, slowly. Almost in reach, it hurriedly backed away, a flurry of small stones and mud hitting her legs. Before Aryl could protest, it did the same again: a slow approach, then hasty retreat, but not the full distance. This continued until it came to rest where she could have stretched out her hand to touch it—not that she would. She watched it rear, slowly, as if to assure her of its good intentions.

No, she realized suddenly. Despite its swollen bulk shading her from the sun, it was wary of her.

This was different.

The new Humans, or Human-shaped Strangers, gave up any pretense of ignoring what was happening and leaned in the doorway of the storage building to watch.

Enris?

Our Human’s being his confusing self.

He’s not the only one. She trusted Enris to deal with Marcus—or was it the other way around? Sometimes, Aryl thought distractedly, she wasn’t sure which of them she could trust to be sensible.

From this proximity, she had a too-good view of the Speaker’s underside. The flesh was glossy and pale, flushed in places with blue. The black limbs, hard and jointed like a biter’s, were in rows. Most were folded, like rows of neatly aligned utensils, though a few jutted at odd angles as if forgotten. Or broken. This close, it smelled of dust and the oil they used on their vehicles.

And decay.

Whirr/clicks settled to the ground around it—and her. She eyed them uneasily. The small black things were too like biters to be trusted, though none had shown an interest in Om’ray flesh. Yet. They clung outside tunnel entrances until an Oud came out, followed that particular Oud in an annoyingly noisy cloud, and would wait like this, occasionally milling around, unless another Oud moved nearby. Then they’d desert the first in a flurry of whirrs and clicks. Not that any of the other Oud in the clearing were moving.

She was stuck with them.

Worry that wasn’t hers.

Enris?

It’s complicated.