The Third Claw of God

by Adam-Troy Castro

  Still, it was odd that my instincts had gone directly to that.

  I sensed something between them.

  “Andrea?”

  I felt a jerk, a brief moment of subaural vibration, and then movement. The Carriage had disengaged from Layabout. The view through the transparent wall looked exactly the same as before, as was only reasonable given our measured rate of descent; we couldn’t even see Layabout, as it was now in our blind spot, somewhere above us. But any chance we’d had of backing away from the Bettelhine plans for us, and returning to New London, without further involvement were now in the past.

  We were committed.

  4

  PORRINYARDS

  L ife with the Porrinyards had its counterintuitive aspects.

  They meshed so well that it was easy to forget that they’d ever been anything else. But they’d begun their lives as two people, lovers with a tempestuous relationship who had found that, as much as they needed each other, they could not coexist as individuals. They’d seen cylinking as the one way they could have a future together.

  Was this the utter failure or the ultimate triumph of romantic love?

  Answer: Yes.

  And also: No.

  The damnable thing was that both answers were equally accurate.

  The shared being they were now was neither the boy who’d owned the body now occupied by Oscin or the girl who’d owned the body now occupied by Skye.

  Even the names they used now were illusory, referring to the bodies alone, and necessary for convenience in describing their separate actions. They talked of the original people, now gone, with the same kind of affectionate pity that most human beings reserve for the disabled and deprived, sometimes expressing amazement that either one of them had survived long enough to reach the day when they’d walked into a branch office of AIsource Medical and asked to be rendered composite.

  They’d once told me that the biggest surprise of their new life was being able to look back on the experiences they’d shared and compare the memories from a global perspective. They were stunned by how many things vital to the boy had been dull to the girl, how many things the girl prized about herself the boy had considered stupid and vain. The girl had secretly seen the boy as weak and the boy had considered the girl too judgmental. As singlets, the two of them had spent at least half of their time together lying to each other. Their love, while genuine, had been tainted with all the resentments native to the constant rivalry for dominance that always comes from the proximity of any creature whose wants and needs and whims could never precisely synch.

  “Knowing what I know now,” the Porrinyards told me, early in our relationship, “it’s amazing to me that any singlets tolerate each other for more than five days.”

  That hit me especially hard, since five days had been about as long as I’d ever managed to hold on to any lover before them.

  Sex after their union had been, in some ways, many times better than it had ever been before, since their shared consciousness could feel the physiological responses of both bodies, and each body was capable of instant reaction to the needs of the other. For more then a year after their transformation, they’d amused themselves doing it in every position their limber physiques could achieve. They still did, whenever I wasn’t available. I wasn’t the first to note that, directed at linked pairs, “go fuck yourself” was not an obscenity, but a reasonable suggestion. (They sometimes thanked those who flung those words in anger with a sweet appreciation that drove those hostile people crazy.) Still, sex with each other amounted to masturbation. They still had only one soul, which could get lonely, and that soul required an other, one capable of seeing them as a single person and not as a pair.

  The first counterintuitive thing about being that other is that I never felt excluded, ever. I felt outnumbered from time to time, but it was a wry kind of irritation, identical to what I would have felt in the presence of anybody capable of out-thinking me. But there was no real sense of being the odd woman out in a crowd. They were just the other person, and the best kind of other person for any lasting relationship: the kind who was just a little bit more than I could handle.

  The second counterintuitive thing about the Porrinyards had to do with their eagerness for me to undergo the procedure myself, and join them as a third.

  I wanted that myself. It was impossible to be with them and not want what they had. But it was also impossible to want that without fearing what would come with it. Forget the reluctance people have just paying lip service to the commitment it takes to stay with another person forever. Imagine how much more difficult it is to take that step knowing that once you do, the person you’re committing to will no longer be the same person you care about now. Imagine that you won’t be yourself, either. Imagine that you’ll exist in the same skin, without any secrets of your own. Imagine looking back on the person you are now, and the person you love now, from the judgmental perspective of someone who isn’t really either one of you.

  That was the future we faced. We wanted to link. We hoped we would, someday. But if we ever did, it would be the end of me and the end of the gestalt they were now. Andrea Cort and the Porrinyards would both be gone, replaced by a new entity who had a lot in common with us but who was, for all intents and purposes, someone else, someone who might not even like us. Someone we might not want to be.

  Someone who, on top of everything else, would be alone again, and once again driven to find love. With the domestic circumstances even more complicated.

  Was my resistance to becoming their Third the ultimate failure or the ultimate triumph of romantic love?

  Answer: Yes.

  And also: No.

  Again, both answers were equally accurate.

  For a full year now I hadn’t had the slightest idea what to do.

  And some women think they have a dilemma because their men keep leaving the toilet seat up.

  T here’s another paradox, difficult for people outside our relationship to comprehend, something we took advantage of now: the convenience of multitasking.

  The Porrinyards don’t always need to do everything in unison. One can sleep while the other eats. One can interrogate a suspect while the other pursues a different line of inquiry worlds away. One can play while the other works. They both get the benefit of every experience, real-time, but they don’t need to collaborate on every activity at every second to accomplish that. Two heads mean being able to concentrate on two things at one time, without compromising either.

  To wit:

  The Porrinyards had emerged from stasis so horny they could hardly bear it. They usually did. It may have had to do with the energy spike that always follows any space traveler’s release from bluegel, but they had lust to burn, and they had wanted nothing more since our arrival at Layabout but to get me someplace private and rip my clothes off.

  The long delays since our arrival, from the sudden terror of the assassination attempt to the long hours of tedium in Pescziuwicz’s protective custody, had brought them all the way from simmer to boil.

  I felt the same way. But we had work to do, background to acquire if we were to face our next meeting with the Bettelhines prepared, and very little time to accomplish that as well as scratch our mutual overwhelming itch.

  But if even a single-skull can make love while distracted, imagine how much easier it is for somebody with that much more shared mindspace to play around with.

  While we were soaping each other in the shower, which as advertised offered real water as warm as liquid fire and enough water pressure to strum our skin like stringed instruments; while Oscin’s tongue explored my lips and Skye’s nimble hands spread the euphorics on my ass; while I closed my eyes, lost track of which Porrinyard was doing what and forgot to care; while I wept for my own cowardice in not joining their link and moments later found my cheeks strain from smiling; while I gasped from her touch and threw my hands around his shoulders, there was no single moment when I caught either one of them absent. But e
ach one of them was present, and concentrating on the act alone, only about sixty percent of the time. The remaining forty percent of the time, at least one of them was paused, that half of their shared consciousness tapping their shared hytex link for more background on some of the questions we’d been handed.

  That protocol to absorb information at a hundred thousand words per second, shifting back and forth between Oscin and Skye, didn’t prevent either one of them from enjoying the our interlude, or from perceiving it sans interruption. Oscin could be knee-deep in the history of the K’cenhowten religious wars, giving it his full attention, and still feel every individual sensation Skye felt as I knelt before her. He wasn’t being short-changed at all, nor was she when his body was needed. As long as one was present, both were.

  Is it better when neither one’s driving blind at any point? For them it is. Twice as much viewpoint to enjoy, at every moment. I like to tell them it’s better for me, too, but the truth is that I don’t often catch them at it. There have been times when only one of them was physically present, the other absent because of one errand or another, and I could have sworn that I felt the other there, not just in spirit but in physical form. I once made love to Oscin and felt Skye touching me, even though she was three thousand kilometers away at the time. And there was no point in asking them how I could feel her there, when their only response would be an amused, “Well, she was.” Of course she’d been. But from the point of a poor, broken single-skull: What the hell?

  On the other hand, I didn’t understand how starship propulsion worked either, and that hadn’t stopped me from zipping back and forth across civilized space for half my life. As long as we get where we want to go, who cares how it works?

  When we were done, I rested my head on Oscin’s shoulders, allowing him to carry me to the bed while Skye dabbed my back with a towel large enough to sop up a continent. He placed me on the bed, accepted another kiss, and lay on his side facing me, while Skye spooned me, her skin still steaming from the shower.

  We’d be days coming down from this glow.

  I tried and failed to replace my exhausted grin with a look of determined concentration. “So what have you got?”

  Skye massaged my shoulder blades. “The Khaajiir.”

  T he K’cenhowten were squat, neckless things with an affinity for shallow water and a phenotype that would have resembled the terrestrial turtle, if turtles walked on their hind legs and had shells covered with spikes. From appearance alone you would expect them to be warlike, and they did like to pick fights, though their definition of picking a fight was so leisurely that you could swallow their provocations for centuries on end before realizing that they wanted you to shoot back. They’d once owned over a thousand worlds, and still called what they had an empire, but the incursion of races with speed settings above interminable now limited them to less than two hundred, none of which anybody else wanted.

  I’d dealt with the K’cenhowten a few times in diplomatic settings and had always found them dull and irritable. They’ve never been among my favorite sentient races, if I could be said to have any, but I’d mark them as more congenial than the Tchi and a lot less explosive than human beings. That’s because they don’t change their minds easily. There’s a saying in the Dip Corps. Point a K’cenhowten in any given direction, give him a reason to walk, leave for a few hours, and chances are that when you come back he’ll still be lumbering toward the horizon when you get back.

  Alas, that went for bad directions, too, and whenever they wandered into one of the historical morasses that afflict all sentient races from time to time, they didn’t retreat but rather kept moving until it was well over their heads.

  In the case of their dark age, it was a period of religious tyranny as vile as the Spanish Inquisition or Third Jihad of old Earth, or the Scouring of Deyasinq only a few centuries back. Skye didn’t claim to understand the theology involved, except to say that it resembled the same old crap. More to the point, it gripped the K’cenhowten for centuries. Entire generations lived knowing that if denounced for any reason, including insufficient piety, they could be brought to the dungeons of the church and treated to the fruits of the clergy’s endless ingenuity for inflicting pain. Some involved starvation, a process that given the slow K’cenhowten metabolism could take up to two years. Others involved the removal of the exoskeleton and the application of caustics to the digestive organs.

  But the most feared was the Claw of God, no caress for human beings but especially terrifying to members of a race that counted on their shells to protect them. It was one thing for a K’cenhowten to be pierced by a weapon capable of penetrating his shell. But the Claw was worse. The Claw was a way of telling nonbelievers: Your shell is nothing to us. We don’t even need to damage it to get to the meat of you.

  It was hard to believe that a regime that demented could fall after holding their power for that long, but it did, after a rebellion that ripped the ruling party from its throne. A countertyranny that lasted a century or so subjected many of the descendants of that first reign of terror to much the same treatment, for equally trivial reasons. Then the Khaajiirel, a word related to the K’cenhowten word for agriculture, arrived. There appeared to have been no single, messianic leader, just a determined consensus among many individuals capable of saying no when they believed enough was enough. They stopped the cycle, restoring K’cenhowten politics to something approaching sanity, within a mere generation.

  Sixteen thousand years later, enter our Professor Kassasir, a Bocaian academic of impeccable credentials known for his works in fields that corresponded to history, mathematics, exohistory, exoneurology, and exopsychology. Those latter specialties, devoted to the wiring and function of alien minds, were of sufficient disinterest to most Bocaians that his achievements in those fields had earned him little more than footnoted obscurity. But that was before his fascination with K’cenhowten’s reign of terror, a lurid subject that had brought him a low level of celebrity when his paper on the subject earned him more offworld attention than he’d ever received among his own people.

  That had changed things for him. He’d been the local boy who made good. He’d spent most of his time, in lectures, trying to explain how the Khaajiirel, who he called the “splendid miracle,” could have halted the fevered momentum of all the bloody history that came before them.

  Then he’d done something that had led his university to fire him for cause.

  And some time after that, he’d left Bocai, leaving no forwarding address.

  “T hat’s all very interesting,” I said, my tone establishing that it was not, “but what are the Bettelhines doing with him?”

  The three of us were still in bed, the Porrinyards bracketing me on both sides, the remaining moisture from the shower prickling as it dried on our bare skin. Skye had stopped rubbing my shoulder, and now rested her hand on my hip. I could only damn the dinner invitation. We’d have to get ready before too long.

  “I don’t know,” the Porrinyards said. “It could be anything. I know that rich people sometimes adopt artists like pets. There’s no reason to believe the Bettelhines wouldn’t do the same thing for obscure utopian alien academics.”

  “Jason called the Khaajiir’s presence a sensitive corporate secret.”

  “True. But there’s sensitive and there’s sensitive. The Bettelhines could be underwriting his historical research out of noblesse oblige, keeping his presence classified until they have something sufficiently glorious to merit a public unveiling. Or they could have found some practical application to some discovery he made in one of his other disciplines, something big enough to make them want to make him a personal guest. Right now we don’t have enough data to know.”

  Flailing for a pattern, knowing it useless, I ventured, “We have those assassins.”

  “True. And what do they prove, at this point?”

  I hated to admit it, but the answer was Nothing. Even if we could confirm that they’d been his target, we still didn’
t know whether their reason for wanting him dead had anything to do with any work he might have been doing for Bettelhine. “We have me. We know it has something to do with me.”

  “We know it looks that way, because the Bettelhines have made such a point of withholding the information until we can connect with their father. But maybe he just considers it too sensitive to be left to the kids. And maybe he just wants you to tolerate a few hours in the Khaajiir’s presence until he can you get you dirtside, separate the two of you, and tell you why he really called you here. Again, we don’t have enough data. And you shouldn’t need us to tell you that.”

  No, I shouldn’t. I was, after all, the one talented at solving puzzles. “So what else have you got?”

  Oscin surprised me by sitting up and staring at the blackness on the other side of the suite’s transparent wall. “Jason Bettelhine.”

  T he disappearance of Jason Bettelhine for much of his childhood had been a major story throughout the Confederacy, if one I’d ignored because of my own level of disinterest in what amounted to a celebrity scandal.

  The mystery had received special coverage here on Xana. I had to expect that. He was, after all, one of the heirs to the Inner Family birthright, famous from the day he was born. Still, most of the particulars had remained vague, with the Bettelhines keeping most of the investigation away from the media’s hands.

  About all that came out, aside from the usual conflicting rumors and empty speculation, was that there’d been no particular reason to suspect kidnapping, a claim that by process of elimination established that Jason had left his home and his great expectations of his own volition. This seemed an extraordinary step for a boy who’d been all of thirteen. Maybe he’d been an unhappy kid and maybe he’d just been a romantic one, his head addled with dreams of offworld adventure.

  For five years there’d been no more word, his fate just a perennial question, mentioned anew on his birthdays and on every anniversary of his departure. Then came the thunderbolt of an announcement. Jason was alive and well and on his way back. There was no information on what he’d been doing, or why he’d decided to return at that particular moment, even if it had in fact been his own idea. If the Bettelhines knew, they’d kept that proprietary as well.