Rift in the Sky

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “Karina Bowman is the daughter. The mother’s name is Kelly Bowman. The father’s—he was—” For some reason, Aryl found herself unable to say it. She pulled out the image disk and handed it to Maynard, folding her hands on her lap. “It’s in there.”

  He touched the insignia on his jacket. “Look up ‘Karina and Kelly Bowman.’ Norval city limits to start. All occurrences.” He lifted his fingers away. “That’ll start the data flow. Now.” Like Yao, the constable had no problem operating the disk.

  She watched him, not the images; saw how he gazed without expression at the image of the four, how, when Marcus’ face appeared, muscles along his jaw clenched. Maynard played the message through once, then again. Again.

  Aryl closed her eyes.

  “He was tortured.”

  She opened them, saw his anger and didn’t understand. “Injured—”

  “You call that ‘injured’? Ossirus save me from fools!” His anger was at her now. “I know torture when I see it. That was deliberate harm, Aryl di Sarc, by someone who wanted answers, information, something from this Bowman. Who? Where did this happen? When?”

  Tears filled her eyes. Marcus had been tortured? “I don’t know,” she fumbled. “Offworld. I—I found the disk in my things when we unpacked. I don’t know how it got there, only that I—I must have promised him. To give it to Karina. Why else would I have it?”

  His eyes were cold. “Why, indeed?”

  Aryl stiffened. “Will you help me or not?”

  Without answering, Maynard took the disk and went to his seat at the front of the aircar.

  Aryl stayed where she was, looking down at her hands, and did her best to keep her thoughts—and her feelings about them—from Enris.

  Torture.

  Did that terrible word describe what Naryn had done to KaeCee? What M’hiray scouts did to any Human vulnerable to Power?

  If so, they were no better than those who’d tormented Marcus Bowman. He hadn’t deserved to be treated like that.

  He’d only tried to help them. To help their . . . it faded . . .

  No, she wouldn’t lose the memory. She wouldn’t!

  ... help their world. Marcus Bowman had been a friend, not only to her, but to the M’hiray. A Human friend, of his own will.

  Had he died for it?

  Aryl waited, lost in her own concerns. She didn’t know how long it was before the constable swiveled his seat to look at her again. “You say he was your friend.”

  “Yes. Have you found something?”

  “A puzzle. I hate puzzles,” Maynard added almost lightly. “In my line of work, they mean elements who prefer to hide certain truths. Elements who will be distinctly unhappy if I happen to find them.”

  Aryl didn’t bother working this out. “Did you find Karina?”

  “I found Marcus Bowman.”

  She blinked.

  “In the records. What’s left of them. He’s listed as having died offworld—but not where or how. His work appears in the indices of various academic publications, where he’s described as a prominent xenoarchaeologist and Triad Analyst—but the First won’t comment on whether or not a Marcus Bowman did research for them. According to a source, any and all original materials attributed to a Marcus Bowman have been sealed and removed from public access.

  “The one item that does keep surfacing? Marcus Bowman was an expert on the Hoveny Concentrix. Does that mean anything to you?”

  KaeCee said the artifacts were Hoveny. Marcus Bowman had put his name on them as proof. “A past civilization,” Aryl said. “One that ruled this section of space a long time ago.”

  “Hoveny relics are rare. Incredibly valuable,” the constable informed her, leaning his arm on the back of his chair. His eye glinted. “Our mutual friend KaeCee would be interested, but the oddest thing? There hasn’t been so much as a whiff of anything untoward about his activities in weeks. Since you’ve arrived, in fact. Have you been a good influence?”

  She tried not to flinch. Maynard was on the hunt; she knew the signs. She’d been wrong to come, Aryl realized, her mouth dry. Wrong not to see the dangers in names and data. Haxel would want this Human “handled.”

  Not going to happen, Aryl told herself fiercely. “Did you find Karina Bowman?”

  “She’s dropped off.”

  She’d never understand the Human fondness for meaningless expressions. “Off what?”

  Maynard regarded her. “The First may not acknowledge Marcus Bowman, but they legally claimed everything he owned. Home. Credit deposits. Savings. We’ve no current location or work address for anyone in his family. My guess is those who got wind of the claim took what they could and ran offworld. It happens.” With a shrug. “Puts them out of my jurisdiction.”

  Offworld. It meant away from here. But where?

  Like most M’hiray, Aryl wasn’t quite convinced the locates for the seven Houses were on other planets entirely and struggled with the scope of the newly formed and growing Trade Pact. Worlds. Solar Systems. Quadrants. Galaxy. Words. That’s all they were. Offworld said it all.

  “They’re gone?”

  He brandished the disk in one hand. “Which leaves this. Whatever Bowman put in here, it’s encrypted. Secret,” at her questioning look. “You’d need his code to access it. Might be for privacy. But secrets raise another possibility. Not a pleasant one.”

  “Nothing about this is,” she retorted. “What possibility?”

  “That Bowman never intended this for his daughter. The First’s claim went through about the time you arrived. Maybe he knew she’d be gone. Maybe he expected someone else to obtain it from you, someone with the code.”

  Aryl relaxed and smiled. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that this is for the baby.”

  “Baby?” His gaze sharpened. “What baby?”

  “Karina.”

  Maynard activated the image disk again. “The little girl here?”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t know—I see.” He turned off the image. “This vid was made fourteen standard years ago.”

  No. That was Marcus’ family. He’d shown her. Talked of them. They’d been alone together, both lonely . . . Family was everything. To him as well.

  Aryl surged to her feet. “I don’t believe it!”

  The constable didn’t move. “City records state Kelly Bowman dissolved their partnership shortly after this was taken, keeping the son, Howard. The daughter became the sister’s ward, Cindy Bowman, and both were last known to reside in the Bowman home in Norval. Karina Bowman isn’t a baby anymore.”

  “Why would he show me this?” Aryl sank back down. “Why this and not the truth?”

  “It wasn’t a lie,” Maynard said quietly. “At a guess, Bowman was far from home. Living like that—you take your best memories with you, not your failures. Do you understand?”

  “Lie” she understood. Now. Another meaning revealed. To say what wasn’t true, to do it on purpose. She didn’t like the words the constable taught her. She didn’t like them at all.

  “If Marcus didn’t lie to me,” Aryl replied with a scowl, “he lied to himself.” To pick and choose parts of a life to remember, parts to forget? If that was what the M’hiray had done, they’d lied to themselves, too. She should go home. There was no point to this. To any of it.

  The past was broken.

  “Listen to me, Aryl di Sarc.” Maynard came and sat across from her, the disk held flat between his palms. “I said this was a puzzle. It’s not an ordinary one. Parts of your friend’s life are being hidden by those in power. There’s a stench to what’s being left in the open. If Hoveny relics show up anywhere, right after a Triad Analyst is declared dead and his belongings confiscated? The snoops will be all over it. Bowman will be accused and convicted by opinion. His reputation won’t be worth a pox’s piss.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that.” Besides believe him. Besides believe it was all their doing, that by selling the artifacts the M’hiray ha
d done exactly what this Human predicted: plant suspicion on Marcus.

  Who’d known this would happen.

  The look in his eyes from the vid. Why hadn’t she seen it?

  Marcus Bowman had known what giving the M’hiray the artifacts, what sending both to Stonerim III would mean. The destruction of his reputation. The cost to his family.

  He’d traded it all for them.

  “There’s nothing I can do,’ Aryl repeated, hair sliding limp over her cheeks. “It’s too late.”

  “Might be.” Maynard pressed the disk into her hands. “Might not. Keep this,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, mind you. It could take a while—a long while. I can’t make this a public search. Not and avoid—certain elements.” His sudden smile was predatory. “But if I find her, you’ll know.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then, Aryl, you give Marcus Bowman’s daughter the truth. Some of it, which is more than she has now.”

  Her hair slipped down her arms to cover their hands. Aryl gazed at the constable and for a instant saw another face, with wise green-brown eyes and a smile that quirked at the corner.

  “You have a daughter.”

  He half smiled. “Three.”

  If she’d met Maynard first that night . . . if the M’hiray had found a better kind of Human in Norval, one to trust instead of use . . . so much would be different.

  As well wish for a world of their own.

  “I’ll be waiting, Constable,” she said solemnly. “As long as it takes.”

  Chapter 8

  FIRST TEERAC, THEN VENDAN moved, establishing their place away from Sarc. Aryl missed them all, something she kept to herself. She seemed the only one who wanted the M’hiray to stay together; happiest when they gathered again, quiet for days when they left.

  Enris believed it was the baby. “Who should,” Aryl whispered to the considerable bulk that preceded her, “be out by now.” She wasn’t, according to Seru and Sian, late. As her cousin had given birth two weeks ago, and Sian’s Chosen had never had a child, she didn’t think much of their opinions. “Late you are.”

  Notlisteningnotlistening.

  Opinions, her baby did have. And a will as strong as her Chosen’s. “You’d be happier out.” To prove it, Aryl walked through the door to the upper balcony to greet the morning.

  The gardeners had finished only days ago. Other M’hiray, especially Naryn, had thought this the strangest notion she’d had yet. Being First Chosen, Aryl thought smugly, she didn’t have to think much of those opinions either.

  The balcony stretched out from the Tower, curved back, and formed a gentle ramp as it wrapped completely around the Sarc holding. She could walk to the roof from here.

  Not quickly. The gardeners had followed her instructions with Human enthusiasm, accomplishing more than she’d imagined. Where other balconies had transparent floors or rich surfaces of tile and wood, that of Sarc was soft turf. Vines climbed the Tower walls. Sections of the senglass were programmed to allow their flowering tips to pass through, so at night, it was hard to tell where the garden ended and their home began.

  As she did every morning now, Aryl plucked a wide, sturdy leaf, sniffed its pungent fragrance, then absently folded it once, then again. Once more, she decided. She went to the railing and tossed it gently into the wind. The folded leaf flew straight for a few seconds and she began to smile, then it tumbled and spiraled straight down. “Not right,” she murmured.

  Taller plants made islands of shade and foliage. Nothing appeared groomed or tame, though of course it all was. But when she stood here during the nightly rain, in the midst of growing things, Aryl could almost touch . . .

  “Thought I’d find you here.” Enris wandered in, ducked a low-hanging branch, and flung himself down on a sunny spot of turf. “How’s our bundle?”

  She smiled and brought over a stool, having discovered their “bundle” resented the amount of bending required to lie on the ground. Her bare toes caressed the turf. “Not as impatient as I am.”

  “Did you hear Council asked Lymin and Suen to consider our daughter for their son’s Choice?” He rolled over on his back and grinned at her. “Suen said to remind them in fourteen years or so. Not that he has anything against ties with the Sarcs.”

  Aryl laughed. “As if Council can dictate Choice.” Warmth slipped between their minds, as soothing as the sun on her back.

  You two dressed?

  Enris snorted.

  We’re fit for company, Aryl replied, smiling as Naryn materialized. “Glad you’ve decided to—”

  “I’m not here to visit.” Naryn’s red hair writhed over her shoulders, dipped across one eye. “There’s a Human asking for you in the Tower antechamber. She won’t give a name.”

  Uninvited visitors didn’t reach the Towers of Lynn. There were abundant—and costly—measures to ensure the privacy of those who lived here. Enris sat up. “How did she get this far?”

  “She was brought in an undeclared vehicle. It had the right codes. Cader took a look. He says,” Naryn’s lip curled with distaste, “it was one of the stealth pursuits used by Norval’s constabulary. How your nephew would know this is something you should investigate, First Chosen.”

  Maynard.

  Aryl rose to her feet, heart pounding. “Have her brought—have her brought here.”

  Who is it?

  “Here?” Naryn’s eyebrow lifted.

  “Here.”

  To Enris. I know who I hope it is.

  How long did it take to come up the lift? Enris had gone down to greet their guest—greet and assess any risk she posed. Time enough for Aryl to stand in the shade of a willow, move back into the sun, shift to be next to a small fountain, only to wind up on the stool again when her ankles protested.

  All this time, there’d been no word from the constable. Aryl had known not to seek it, had done her best, after confiding in Enris, to put the affairs of Marcus Bowman from her mind and concentrate on her people.

  Even when rumors had indeed spread into the news, linking Bowman’s name to more words she didn’t like: collusion, treachery, greed. Not that there was proof. But proof didn’t seem necessary. The mysterious death of several researchers. The confiscated goods of one. A now-sealed world. More than enough to condemn the innocent.

  Wrong.

  Aryl smoothed the blue silk that covered their bundle with one hand. The other held the image disk.

  We’re here.

  She looked up eagerly.

  Careful. From his mind; nothing but welcome showed on his face as Enris d’sud Sarc graciously bowed the first non-M’hiray to set foot in the House of Sarc through the door.

  Warned, Aryl stayed where she was, and schooled the smile from her face.

  Young, this Human, and not. Her eyes were old. They didn’t acknowledge the luxury of a Lynn Tower, or the magnificent view that encompassed the horizon. They locked on her and waited with a hard patience.

  What had Maynard told her was waiting, Aryl wondered desperately, that she looked so angry?

  “I’ll wait up top,” Enris said easily, and strode up the ramp. He saw no threat, then. The caution hadn’t been for her sake, but for the Human’s. Aryl waited until his footsteps faded.

  “You’re Karina Bowman.”

  “You want to run my code, too?”

  Aryl ignored what she didn’t understand. “Please, have a seat.” There were more stools.

  “I won’t be here that long.”

  “For the sake of my neck,” Aryl suggested gently. “You’re tall.” Like her mother. With the same red hair, though Karina’s scalp was shaved with the exception of a single long strand that fell behind her left ear. Beads were tied through its length.

  Aryl’s hair lifted in protest, and she pushed it back.

  “Quite the trick.” With all the disdain of someone who couldn’t afford new clothes, let alone the kind of ornamentation Grandies preferred.

  “Trust me, it gets annoyin
g,” she replied calmly.

  Something in her tone eased the defensive stance. The Human grabbed one of the stools and moved it, then sat.

  Graceful. Lean. Worn. That was it. Worn.

  A sudden tilt of the head—curiosity. The movement was ach ingly familiar. Aryl blinked before tears filled her eyes. “I have something of yours, Karina.”

  “Kari. I go by Kari.”

  “And I by Aryl.” This old-child made her feel like Husni. “It’s a message from your father.” She held out the disk.

  The laugh was harsh and bitter. “What is it? An apology? A ‘sorry I abandoned you as a baby’ or ‘sorry I made sure to ruin your life’?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what do you know?” The Human sprang to her feet again with such violence Aryl had to fight not to react. “Are you the ones he stole for? Did he pay for all this?”

  “Yes.” It felt as though she’d plunged a knife into her own heart.

  Karina hadn’t expected an answer—or that answer. For the first time, there was something vulnerable on her face. Then it was gone again. “So what now? Are you going to give me creds?”

  “ ‘Creds?’ ”

  “Set me up or shut me up.”

  “The House of Sarc will always include you and yours,” Aryl said. And it would. She would see to it that this debt was never forgotten. The child had no conception of the resources that had been waiting for her arrival. Funds, in the right amount and no more, from sources above suspicion. Human sources. A suitable home. An education. The protection of the M’hiray, that always. “But that isn’t why you’re here.”

  She pressed her fingers to both surfaces of the disk as Yao had shown her. First the image of the family, then . . .

  His face gazed at them, bruised and worn.

  “My name is . . . Marcus Bowman. This . . . device contains my . . . final message for my . . . daughter. Karina Bowman . . . Norval, Stonerim III . . . Anyone who finds . . . this. Please take . . . it to the nearest . . . offworld authority . . . Make sure she . . . hears this. Please.”

  Karina didn’t move. Didn’t seem to breathe.