by Kay Kenyon
He waited. It was cold. They would hoist him two seconds before launch. Already his arms were taut, held up at an uncomfortable angle. It was so cold in there. Mercifully they weren't talking to him over the audio.
So quiet. He waited. Licked his lips. Dry mouth.
He stood spread-eagled, a sacrificial lamb, a sacrificial man.
He began to worry that they had already thrown the switch and he would be lost forever in this harness, waiting for the world.
Then it came.
The hoist lifted. The cannon shot.
But silently. No noise, but the smell. He was in a world of olfactory nonsense. Things he had no name for. The smell of the world dissolving, the smell of the quark-filled universe. He saw his own arm hanging out at his side. Saw the pulse of blood through an artery. He followed the movement of blood, traversing his upper arm with the stately pace of a glacier. At this rate, the blood would never make it back for reoxygenation in time to ...
He couldn't remember what blood was for.
His arms were gone. Uh-oh. Floating ahead of the rest of him. He hoped that didn't mean a screw-up. He looked through the harness, and his torso was drifting suspended, armless, through the corridors of the Ceres Platform. Picking up speed, coming to the end of the corridor, an impossibly long corridor, where the wall up ahead was about to have a very personal interaction with his face.
Tearing through the wall, past the foam of insulation, data structures, carbon nano hull. Waiting to explode in vacuum space. Looking back at the hole in the space platform, people frozen in midstride. Better close the hole, he thought. He saw people changing positions. They weren't frozen, they were just moving so slowly. It made him sick, watching how slowly they moved, when his life was speeding faster and faster. He turned around, to look where he was going.
Ahead was vast, black, capturing space. He submitted himself to it.
The universe rewarded him by knocking him senseless.
TAItT II
MOLD
`UP
THE
liItI6ilT
CI AfTEK SEVEN
EN AN WAS OLD, past the age when she expected to see miracles, or even the unexpected. A life of 50,000 days ensured that you had seen most everything at least twice. But looking into the eyes of the stranger, she knew that an old woman had just been given the gift of surprise. Of course, it might be a fatal one.
Now, as she led the beku down the valley, the stranger lay on the palanquin, still delirious. His head injury would heal, but he would not last long once they reached the village. So she must decide whether to cast him to his fate, or protect him. God not looking at me, she thought crossly. I haven't asked to be surprised; I've never hoped to make high decisions, nor ever looked to be garroted by a bright lord.
All of these things appeared likely to happen, because of the appearance on her doorstop of an out-of-place man.
She'd found him during her walk, shortly after rising. The stranger lay at the foot of a rock outcropping, as though he had fallen from its height, though why a man should climb a rock in the far reach of a dusty minoral was incomprehensible. Lugging him by beku to her outpost, she had cleaned his head wound, attempting to analyze it for infection, but the stone well could make nothing of his blood sample. When his eyes fluttered open for a moment, she understood why.
Blue eyes. After sitting a moment digesting this discovery, she leaned forward and picked up his left eyelid to confirm the impossible. Yes, blue.
It was no absolute proof that he was from the Rose. But combined with the odd clothes she drew a scholar's conclusion. All these years of peering through the veil at the Rose, eking out the merest snips of knowledge, and now she had a Rose specimen lying in her bed. The implications for scholarship staggered her. However, by bond law, her life was forfeit unless she turned him in. So much for scholarship.
"Heaven give us few surprises," she muttered now as she led the beku by a rope. How had the man made the crossing? And why? He'd come with no army of invasion, nor in any brightship, to penetrate the great wall. The man groaned now and then, and the beku's ears twitched as though the beast wasn't used to moans in that strange tongue. She thought he spoke English, but she couldn't be sure, her Rose studies having focused on Mandarin, Cantonese, and Latin.
In the purse tied to her belt were the lenses she'd made for his eyes. She'd worked through the ebb forming them in case she decided to save his life. Now she must decide whether to give him to the lords or exploit his knowledge. Better, far better than squinting at the Rose universe through the veil, now she might ask this man directly, What is your world? How does it work? How do you live? Many scholars wished to know these things, and were allowed to study them, provided no one of the Rose ever guessed they were being looked at. This was the immutable vow of the realm: to hide, always hide, from the Rose. Some disagreed. Some wanted converse with the Rose, even a few of her own Chalin people. Wen An's position had long been that the worlds should have discourse and learn from each other. Until now, she'd assumed she would have her grave flag before that ever happened. It was well to stay far from politics. And treason.
If she was caught, the eye lenses she'd made would condemn her to lie at the feet of the bright lords. It wasn't too late to cast them away, to be innocent of breaking the vows. Yes, perhaps she should do that. She was too old to embark on new scholarship, to become an important personage. She was a minor scholar, of course; why else would she be stuck at this piddling, dusty reach, working alone and without decent help? She'd grown used to her routines, with her Rose gleanings filling a redstone every day, or every arc at the least. Why strive at her age? On the other hand, she might live to reach 100,000 days, and that meant she was only in the middling years of her life. Hadn't Master Yulin's wife Caiji just died at exactly 100,000 days? Yes, there was still time for important work. She glanced back at the unconscious man. But the fool spoke English, so again, this opportunity was not for her. It was a relief to decide this. Let those who wanted God's notice strive for importance. She would give the stranger up and have done with it.
Who to give him to, though-the lords or Master Yulin? Yes, Yulin might take it amiss for her to deal directly with the bright lords. She had family ties to Yulin's household; there was that as well. Yulin's oldest wife Suzong was Wen An's distant cousin. She knew enough of that exalted lady to suspect that Suzong did not love the Tarig, so let her grapple with the problem. People in high places had high responsibilities, and those in low didn't. She liked the justice of it. There's an end to it then: Let the man go to the Tarig, through the hands of Yulin, and leave her in peace.
Her feet hurt, treading on the rocky minoral floor. She sighed, feeling cowardly and also cross for having to walk six hours with the breath of a beku on her neck.
She turned to see the man stirring on the riding platform. A shame to have saved his life only to see the Tarig take it from him again. Or perhaps as with that other Rose visitor, the bright lords would keep him in a cage for their amusement, or so the story went, that a man of the Rose had been spared for the sake of the bright lady Chiron, who found him a source of amusement-though, of course, the Tarig didn't laugh.
As the Heart of Day cast its fiery heat over the trail, Wen An plodded onward, looking for a good resting spot now that the man was stirring.
Lying blind, his head riddled with pain, Quinn probed his surroundings with his sense of smell. A complex, pollen-filled breeze, tangy and fragrant; an organic musk of an animal. Underneath all other smells lay the memoryladen scent of cloves.
He hovered on the edge of consciousness, clinging to a hard platform that rocked under the swaying plod of some beast of transport. The smells of the beast staggered him. Hundreds, maybe thousands of compounds, churning, churning.
Under an impossible sky.
He rode in an open-sided tent. Sprawled against a hard backrest, he lay staring at a woven cloth sparkling here and there with defects through which the day needled at his eyes. They
had stopped.
A woman peered in at him, old and strangely dressed. She spoke to him in a jumble of sounds, then handed him a cup of what smelled like water. He leaned on his side to slake his thirst, and this brought him closer to the edge of the overhead canopy. Gaping at the sight of the sky, he dropped the cup, drawing a blameful stare from the woman. She left, and his view widened.
The sky was on fire. High, stratified clouds boiled in a blue-white fire. It seemed as though it should blind him, but after the initial shock, he realized the fire was both gentle and bright. Why didn't the woman look up and remark on the clouds being on fire? But even as he thought the question, he knew the answer.
Because it was always like this: the sky, on fire.
It wasn't until that moment, as his transport beast crouched on the ground, and as the woman brought him another cup of water, that he was certain he was back. "Back," he croaked, using his voice for the first time. His eyes watered, perhaps from too much sky-gazing, and a longing welled up in him. To see Sydney once again. To bring her and her mother home. If they were here, that thin hope that had become thick with repetition.
The woman narrowed her eyes, watching him drink.
He slept. When he woke, they were on the march again. The woman led a beast, massive in the shoulders and head, through a gilded landscape of yellows and brownish golds. When he scratched a wound on his temple, bits of dried blood flecked onto his hand. Punching through had been a rough journey-either that or he'd landed badly.
His guide saw him stir but, with little more than a backward glance, continued in front, holding the beast's lead. Her cloak, frosted with the gloaming light above, fluttered in a stiff, warm breeze. On either side, low desert hills hunched up, confining their path to a narrow track.
He was in a new land. He was back. There would be time enough to make sense of the fiery sky, and whether he had a friend or foe walking ahead of him. It was curious that the woman was human. How could there be humans here, in this place of strange grasses and alien beasts? Once he had known the answer. With this question began the great struggle that would engage him for the rest of his days: wrestling with his mind, with his soul, for what he'd known and what he had been. Before.
In time the beast stopped, and in a convoluted process of collapse, settled onto its knees. With some difficulty, Quinn dismounted and regarded the creature.
The animal munched on grass, reaching the clumps from its great height by virtue of a long but powerfully built neck. Topping the massive, scoopjawed head was a small cranium and dainty ears. The four long, meaty legs ended in the broad-hooved pads of its feet. Coarse hairs on its hide sheltered small critters catching a free ride, or a free meal.
The woman rummaged in one of the animal's saddlebags. Presently she presented a few tidbits of food on a cloth, but they smelled inadvisable. Of more interest was the woman herself, her white eyebrows and golden eyes giving her an albino appearance. She wore Asian-style pants and a short jacket, silken and sturdy. Around her neck was a string of red, irregular stones. On her head she wore a wrap of silken cloth that slightly overhung her eyes, protecting them from the sun. From the sky-bright. He called it that, for lack of a better word.
From her packs the woman retrieved a new food offering. This was a kind of cereal that she mixed into a cup of water. He took the proffered cup, liking its smell already. Gulping it down, he held out the cup for more. She refilled it, smiling. He knew the word that was called for.
"Nahil," he found himself saying. Thank you.
At this, the woman froze. Her lips parted to say something, then closed as she stared at him.
He had just revealed that he spoke at least a little of her language.
Finally she uttered a short phrase, a mash of words anchored by heavy glottals.
He didn't understand. The language lay buried inside him. Yet he'd said nahil.
His utterance had staggered her. She walked away, gazing down the valley, standing immobile for a long while.
Had he just made a drastic mistake? What a fool he was, to reveal something so important. But couldn't he be a stranger from another nation, who knew only limited words in her language? He waited, letting her make the next move.
Coming back, she looked up into his eyes and said something in her language.
He shook his head. I don't understand.
She squinted her eyes at him, perhaps disbelieving him, that he knew a word of her language, but not others. But why was this so disturbing?
Then it became clear. If he hadn't been so addled, he would have known instantly: She had known from the beginning that he wasn't of this world; and when he said thank you, she knew he'd been here before. Evidently this was not good news.
She turned away, then sat on a rock, staring at the dust. From time to time she glanced up irritably at him, muttering.
This woman had saved his life. Where would he have found water in this barren place? But where was she taking him? He was not ready to face others in this state: weak, disoriented, confused. And now he appeared to be a lessthan-welcome guest. If he could just remember. Whatever had transpired the last time he was here, it was an unclaimed territory: deep inside of him yet out of reach.
At last the woman rose and, coming close, scrutinized his face. She nodded, pursing her lips, as though she'd just swallowed something distasteful. She turned to the pack beast and retrieved a length of cloth. By her gestures, he realized she wanted to drape his head. He kneeled as she wound the cloth and tucked it in.
This accomplished, she brought out a small box, opening it to reveal a remarkable thing: two small golden lenses. With gestures she showed him how to wear them.
He hesitated to put them on.
Her mouth formed a sneer of impatience. She gripped her neck and made a choking gesture. Evidently there was danger in being blue-eyed. He had little choice but to trust her, and he knelt down to cradle the box and insert the lenses into his eyes. Annoyingly, his vision clouded, but he was not uncomfortable.
The woman nodded with satisfaction. "Nahil," she said.
He decided to trust her for now. She had revealed that he was in danger, and that she would help him. Even so little information was priceless.
They set out again, his guide insisting that he ride. Quinn felt a new energy, even an exultation. His strength was returning. He had survived. So far, he had survived.
At length they and their pack beast emerged from the narrow valley down which they had been traveling for hours. Before them lay a sight that both thrilled and sobered him: a colossal plain, relentlessly flat. Spanning it all, the heavens sparkled, forming an endless bright cloud to the limits of vision. In the sky's soft folds he perceived just the slightest dimming into lavender.
As they descended onto the plains, he saw that at the edge of the flatlands was a towering wall of blue-black that stretched to the limit of sight. The valley they had just come down-perhaps five miles wide-pierced that wall like a tributary. They had been in a minor valley. Now they were in the heart of things.
The wall was a dark escarpment, appearing to form the boundary of the world itself. At an awful height, it bore down on them, bringing a feeling of chaos restrained. It raced toward them over the dry mud pans.... But even as his eyes told him this, he knew the wall didn't move.
Later. He would understand it later.
Several people with pack beasts passed them on their route. The road was little more than a dusty track. If they knew how to make eye lenses, he thought it strange they used no mechanized transport.
One man turned around to take a second look at Quinn, but otherwise he did not draw attention. His skin was slightly darker than most others here, but there were variations in skin tone, and he thought he might pass as long as he didn't have to speak.
The clouds overhead were cooling toward a time that might be dusk. It seemed that the day had been many hours too long already, yet still the skybright churned. They were approaching an inhabited place.
They came upon a corral of pack beasts like his own. Beyond this, a dusty but clean settlement-little more than three dozen or so huts, made of an irregular, molded material of an indescribable color somewhere between black and gold.
The people here conveyed an impression of lean physicality, precise of movement with little wasted on gestures. He would have said fighters, though he saw no arms. By their behavior they appeared more like tradersones who knew a fair price and meant to fetch it. He had difficulty distinguishing men from women at a casual glance, for their dress had no obvious gender markers.
Into one of the huts his companion went barefoot; when she emerged, she presented him with a quilted jacket to go over his shirt. Peering into the doorway, Quinn saw goods laid out. Cottage industry.
His guide glanced ahead, and her face took on a look of alarm. In their path was a small crowd. This seemed to confound his guide, who looked to the left and right for a way to pass. But the line of huts funneled them toward the gathering, and it would draw attention to pause. As they moved closer, they heard voices raised.
They moved closer. In the midst of the small crowd lay a man, garroted. A device of sticks and wire was wound around his neck, and he was dragging air in between swollen lips. His hands bled as he pulled on the wires, to no avail.
Astride him, standing perhaps seven feet tall, was an extraordinary creature.
Thin, almost impossibly elongated, the being wore a long, narrow skirt, sleeveless tunic, and elaborately silvered vest. His powerful muscles declared his gender, when otherwise he might be mistaken for female. His face was deeply sculpted, and his lips, sensual and fine.
Quinn locked in on that face. It was the one on his door knocker. He felt the shock hit deep, into his bones. Here, beyond doubt, was the thing he must hide from.
Every aspect of this creature-his stature, bearing, and motions-was oddly beautiful. Beside him, the villagers looked fleshy and sordid. The creature's skin was a deep bronze, darker by far than any of those who stood staring at the victim, one of their own. The executioner straightened from his task and skimmed the crowd with his eyes, stopping for a moment on Quinn.
