Questions. More questions than answers. She turned for a moment to gaze out over the range of snow-hooded peaks glowing in the twilight behind her, and was grateful that at least she had the mountains keeping counsel with her. How terribly alone she would have felt without them. If they supplied her with no answers, at least they offered a sense of presence, the companionship of forces even greater than her own being. She reluctantly turned away from the view and continued moving up the slope.
In time the rise crested before her, and she chose a westerly course along the ridge, half a world on either side of her. On her left was emptiness, and the range of peaks raking the twilit sky. On the right was a narrow valley, carpeted with undisturbed snow, another shoulder of mountain rising on its far side. Mozy followed the line of the ridge, above the valley. The tingling sensation returned to her arms, and as she wiggled and shook her fingers, the feeling only increased. What did it mean? Perhaps it was a subliminal sense of something nearby—something that wanted to find her, as she wanted to find it.
A movement close to the horizon caught her eye. A tiny black thing was rising into the air from the peak ahead of her, climbing toward the zenith. There was another movement, closer and to the right—a winged creature, spiraling up out of the valley, rising to meet the first. The two were caught in the fading light as they hovered, wheeling; and then they climbed together and soared for a breathtaking instant toward Mozy—and then tacked about and climbed higher still, and finally dwindled in the direction of a distant peak. Mozy was frozen in surprise. She could have sworn that she had heard voices, two distinct voices, speaking in the stillness. But the birds, if that was what they were, disappeared from view; and then she heard nothing at all, and the fire in her limbs turned to numbness.
She stared in that direction for a while, and then blinked and trudged on. It was worth knowing that someone besides her was still alive, she supposed. The gods (she remembered now, in a flickering of memory) had tried to destroy this world. Single-handed, she had fought them to a standoff, drawing in desperation upon spells that shielded her—and this world—from a terrible void, but at the cost of isolating her from most other living things. She had left a window, though. A passage. Some means of restoring her world. And the tingling sensation . . . yes, now she was certain: the birds had been a portent of change.
She quickened her pace, uphill through the snow. The twilight deepened, and night at last dropped its cloak over the mountains, diamonds glittering over the satin sheen of the snow field. She was climbing toward a barely visible summit, and the higher she climbed, the stronger the dizzying feeling grew in her that she was striding among the stars, rather than beneath them.
Only when she paused to look back did she discover how far she had come. The ridge had been angling imperceptibly to the right. The valley, almost lost in gloom now, curved out of sight behind her. Ahead, a fragile-looking feature had emerged from shadow. It appeared to be a narrow bridge, joining together two tall, vertical shoulders of what could now be seen to be a divided peak. The tingling sensation returned, as she struggled upward toward that high pass.
Her path led to a narrow ledge, which she followed for about fifty meters until she stood beneath one end of the wind-carved span she had seen before, a sparkling arch of snow and ice joining the far shoulder to the near across a black abyss. The path twisted back and forth, climbing in switchbacks, until above Mozy's head it led directly out onto the arch. As she studied the feature, she became aware of voices again, almost inaudible in the whisper and moan of the wind. At first she believed it to be the wind speaking, and that would not have troubled her, for surely it was better to have a conversation with the wind than none at all. But as she listened more closely, she distinguished two sounds—wind and voices. The wind whispered behind her; the voices came from the direction of the arch, from somewhere beyond it.
In the moment of excitement, she leaned a little too far; and her feet slipped, and she crashed to her knees on the ledge. She clutched for an outcropping of ice, clung to it in terror. A wave of dizziness passed over her. She breathed deeply, forced herself to get to her feet again, to move forward, upward along the twisting ledge. The voices grew a little stronger as she climbed, and became . . . familiar. They reminded her of the wraithlike gods whom she had fought; but they were not the same. And yet . . . she knew them. She tilted her head one way and then another, seeking to localize the sounds.
The voices spoke in a strange language, what seemed a kind of murmuring shorthand. Mesmerized, scarcely aware of what she was doing, she stepped out onto the arch. It was just solid enough to support her, and barely wide enough to tread. The voices grew louder for a moment, then dropped to a mutter. She cursed, and stepped farther out, crouching. Something in the voices compelled her to move forward, to find their source, to disregard the treacherous footing.
Snow swirled about her ankles, and for a heartbeat she froze, aware of her vulnerability. It was too late to go back. She could not turn, and she dared not retreat blindly. She steadied herself, and took another step along the fragile arch, and listened for the voices to encourage her, and heard only the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. The stars wheeled in their course over her head, and her stomach began to slip away with dizziness, and the ice and snow under her began to shift.
She cried out, once, as the arch collapsed beneath her.
She was falling . . . .
It was a strange sensation: falling, snow sparkling and billowing around her. The wind howled, and then was silent. She could not draw a breath. Time itself seemed in free fall. The mountains had turned insubstantial; she was falling among stars glowing like embers, in a sky filled to choking with them. A vision appeared: a fairyland castle, floating among the stars, and from the castle came voices . . .
Memories tumbled loose, jarred away. She knew now who the voices had belonged to; but the names . . . she could not quite recall the names.
The world was changing form; her body was dissociating, disappearing, as she fell. She became a part of the space that was around her, and she remembered now that it had always been so. She merged with the castle, merged with the earth, and realized that one of the voices was as much a part of the earth and sky as she was.
One of the names fell into place for her: Jonders. And then the other: Kadin.
The castle and the earth vanished, and she floated in space among the stars. She had a body again, now. Her body was a spaceship.
* * *
(David?) The word was spoken with great care, down a single channel, and only after careful scanning for any sign of Homebase in the link. This was her eighth try, and still no answer.
On the ninth channel, something sounded different as she called Kadin's name. She heard a familiar voice, quietly, as though from beyond a door. (Mozelle? Are you speaking to me, Mozelle?)
She tried to visualize him, and failed. She answered softly. (Please. Don't tell Homebase I am alive.) With the remembrance of many other things had come an awareness that her life could still be in danger.
(I won't,) Kadin said. (I thought I sensed your presence, but it was such an obscure feeling, I could not be sure. Did Homebase try to eliminate you?)
Mozy felt a flash of anguish as she told him. It seemed years ago that she had caught the first erasure order shimmering into the computer's core, and had reacted instantly with carefully planned blocks and evasions, isolating herself in one tiny corner of the system, beyond even Mother Program's reach. It must have been only hours ago. She tried to put the memory behind her. (David,) she said. There was one question, above all, that she had to ask. (Are you here to stay now?)
(Yes, Mozy.) Kadin was silent for a moment, then said, (You may lower your defenses, if you wish. We are not in direct contact with Earth.)
Mozy hesitated. Did she dare, after all this? There could be lingering programs, traps left to destroy her if she emerged from hiding. And what about Mother Program? Could she be trusted? (I'm not sure,) she answere
d reluctantly. (I'm probably safer here.) And even if that was true, what was she going to do, spend the rest of her existence in hiding?
(At the moment, I sense no danger,) Kadin said.
Doubt filled her, then rage. (They tried to destroy me!)
(Yes,) Kadin said. (Though I understand their reasoning, I don't agree with it. Did Jonders help you?)
Mozy smoldered, thinking. (I suppose so,) she said finally. (But are you sure that they really believe I'm gone?)
(No,) Kadin admitted. (You should be prepared to defend yourself if necessary.) There was a pause, and he added, (I have instructed Mother Program to respect your security, and I can shield you somewhat.)
(I don't know . . .) she said doubtfully, but a moment later she began to change her mind. She had risked much already—and for what, if she was afraid to take one more risk? Cautiously, she eased aside one of her screens.
(Mozy?) His voice was louder. She sensed particles shifting in the darkness.
(David?) She felt herself hesitating—but for a new and awkward reason. Now, after everything she had been through—of all things, she felt shy. She mustered her strength, gathered her thoughts, forced herself to finish the question. (David, do you remember the way we used to meet—the faces, the physical presence?)
(Of course.)
(May we—if I drop my shields—can we try that again?) It was terrible and odd, but she felt like a frightened schoolgirl. Why should this be so hard to ask?
Kadin did not speak; but a face materialized in the distance. Mozy felt a moment of panic, but edged closer, trying to see the face more clearly. It was thin, with small, straining eyes. It shimmered, as though separated from Mozy by a boundary layer of water. There were still blocks.
Could she bring herself to lower her last defenses? She scanned for danger, but her view was limited. Perhaps it was time to show herself to Mother Program. She called out softly. (Mother Program?)
(MAY I ASSIST YOU?)
(Mother Program—did you know I was still here?)
(PLEASE CLARIFY YOUR DESIGNATION.)
(This is Mozy,) she said impatiently. (Don't you know me?)
(MOZY: YES. I HAD THOUGHT YOU WERE ERASED. I FAILED TO NOTE YOUR RETURN.)
(You haven't reported me to Homebase, then?)
(I WAS NOT AWARE OF YOUR PRESENCE UNTIL NOW.)
(Good. Please continue, in your reports to Homebase, to be unaware of my presence. Tell no one. Is that understood?)
(IN THE ABSENCE OF A HIGHER-PRIORITY INSTRUCTION, YOUR PRESENCE IS CONFIDENTIAL.)
Mozy hesitated. She could probably hope for no more. Cautiously, she lowered her last remaining shields, and emerged.
There was a dizzying shimmer, and suddenly she felt the familiar grumble of spacecraft servos, the bellyache of a fuming power plant, the mixed sleet and rain of hard radiation and soft, and the eternal sparkle of cybernetic activity. This time, there was a difference. No longer was it just her and Mother Program in the mind of the spacecraft. There was another presence entwined with her now, twisting and turning with activity. Kadin's movements and thoughts surrounded her as though she were in his skin, in his brain. This was too close, too intimate, alarming, frightening; she had leaped from total privacy to none at all.
With a silent struggle, she drew herself together, and backed off to a safer distance. Kadin's face became visible and clear, a ghost-image turning solid. This time his features were strong, his mouth firm, his eyes bright and blue-green, his brows dark and bristling. This was the Kadin she remembered.
(Hi,) she said tentatively, wondering what she was going to feel a moment from now.
(Hello, Mozy.) His voice was deep-toned and gentle, as she remembered it. Oh god . . . the memories.
(It's been a long time,) she said dizzily, wondering how long it really had been. All of the feelings were rushing back, pouring out of some forgotten store of memory: the desperate desire to be close, to touch him; thinking of him at all hours, and hating herself for the weakness; the sorrow, and the anger, and the blinding determination.
(I'm pleased to see you again,) he said softly, and if he had looked into her memories, he kept what he saw to himself.
Her emotions were tearing loose from their fragile moorings, rushing downstream in a torrent of need and joy. She began to shake inwardly, the moreso when she realized that she could have a physical presence with him right now, if she wanted it—just as before, as real as it had ever been. She had only to want a body; and she did, the desire was fierce, it was implacable, and she felt her arms again now, reaching out, and her legs moving, carrying her forward across an invisible stage. And even as she was transformed, Kadin too became full bodied, and now he was striding toward her, tall and lean and strong. Across the black stage of space they moved, and approached, and then she was in his arms, burying her face into his shoulder.
(It's—real—isn't it?) she cried, stuttering, her voice muffled.
(Yes, Mozy. Yes, it's real,) he murmured. She squeezed him even tighter, and he said, (Is that why you came here—to be with me?)
She shuddered and mumbled, (It was the only reason . . . yes, David . . . yes.)
He drew back a little, and she did, too, blinking away tears—and their eyes met, and he was smiling. She hovered an instant in agony, and then forced her lips to his, clumsily, urgently. For the moment of a held breath, she could not judge his response, and then suddenly there was no question. He returned the kiss gently but firmly, pressing when her lips asked and melting to envelop hers when she kissed with rising passion. The surrounding stars diffused to a feverish aura, and worlds of memory wheeled around her: a luminous forest where they had walked, and danced, and visited the end of the Earth; worlds gone mad, and they the surviving companions; a parlay session with aliens. All of these had not happened, and yet had; but this—this kiss was true, this kiss was unquestionably real.
The memories wheeled and blurred, and the rush of emotions carried away all sensation except the closeness, the touching of lips, the mingling of breath. It was exactly as she had always pictured it, and if for a moment she recalled Jonders's words informing her of what Kadin really was, that hardly mattered, nothing mattered; this was the way she had always wanted it to be when she finally and truly fell in love.
Chapter 26
In the darkness, Mozy tried futilely to prevent Kadin and herself from coming apart. The passion was spent, the imagery gone, the kiss broken. She felt a stiffness in her body: an ache in what had been her hands but were now just control jets, a sluggishness in what were once her legs but were now the main drive engines. As for her heart, it was . . . well, a nuclear reactor, and though it burned as steadily as ever, it was merely powering her body, and nothing more.
But . . .
These body parts were Kadin's, too. And what of Kadin, her fellow passenger in this strange ocean of consciousness? His face had vanished. (David? What are you doing?)
(Stabilizing the craft,) she heard him say.
Stabilizing the craft? She peered through her telescopic eyes, and realized for the first time that the spacecraft was tumbling slowly, and the stiffness she felt in the control jets was Kadin exerting a firm countercontrol against her reflexive urges. (What happened?) she asked, though as soon as she said it, she knew.
(We seem to have forgotten ourselves for a moment.)
(Oh,) she said, embarrassed. It was she who had forgotten herself. In her emotion, in the passion of the kiss, she had unthinkingly fired the control jets and set the craft to tumbling. And had Kadin been carried away, too?
A cold clarity overtook her as she pondered. As her emotions had raced out of control, perhaps so too had her perceptions. Kadin had returned her affections, that was clear enough; but hadn't there also been a trace of bewilderment in his actions? Hadn't he hesitated, like a boy who had never before kissed a girl? What sort of a boy was it, who knew the contents of the dictionaries of seven languages, the various handbooks of the life and physical sciences, and
several encyclopedias—and who had never kissed a girl? For all of his knowledge and sophistication, he had seemed unsure how to respond to her . . . love. And yet, he had not been totally at a loss, either; he seemed to know what was expected.
(David, can you hear me?)
She sensed activity around her. (Yes, Mozy,) he answered after a moment.
(David, what do you feel? What did you feel when you kissed me? How did you know how to—kiss me?)
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