by Dima Zales
The ’pus had seven tentacles stretched out to me and was clinging to the trunk with just one. Its skin was pulsing from blue and cream to pearly white.
“Okay, okay,” I said, going over so it could climb onto my hip. “I hope you understand, little fellow.”
It settled itself on my jeans. One of its tentacles snuck under my sweater, and its suckers gripped my bare skin — damp and shivery.
Waving goodbye to the other tree-’puses, I headed uphill.
As it turned out, my ’pus had nothing to worry about — I found nothing all day except massive trees, rain, and a steady incline. I stopped a few hours into my walk to eat the more bearable of my food choices, giving the extras to my passenger. Then I continued on, hour after hour.
By late afternoon, I hurt all over. Not only was every muscle in my body screaming, but as I grew more fatigued, I fell down more, so I had a lot of new bruises. Fortunately, the ’pus proved adept at flinging itself away from me when I fell, so I hadn’t landed on it.
When evening approached, I assembled another moss pile for sleeping. I was again provisioned by the tree-’puses.
As I ate, I felt my mind worrying a bad thought that hadn’t quite emerged from my subconscious.
Well, best to keep it buried, I thought. Likely there’d be nothing I could do about it, anyway. I crawled into my moss and went to sleep.
Unfortunately, when I woke up, the bad thought was parked in the center of my mind, all touched up with fresh paint and a body kit.
The S-Em was made up of multiple strata, Cordus’s document had said — layered versions of parts of the world, as reshaped by different workers. Most of the strata were connected to others, but some weren’t. My thought was this: what if I couldn’t get from here to somewhere else? More importantly, what if others couldn’t get from somewhere else to here?
I’d assumed there would be people here, even if this part of the S-Em was made before humans evolved. After all, humans were nothing if not colonizers. All of the Earth had been around for eons before humans evolved, and we’d covered the whole planet.
But what if people had never found their way to this place? What if I was the only vertebrate here bigger than a frog?
Should I have stayed down near the shore?
No, what would be the point of that? I had to look for help. It was either that or hunker down and wait for a rescue that might never happen. And hope the tree-’puses remained generous. That was no way to confront my situation. I’d be back in passive-victim mode.
It was better to try to find help. If Cordus had sent a rescue party, they’d be tracking me and would probably catch up to me quickly.
I just had to keep looking for people — a village, a shack, a road, anything.
Resolved, I gathered up my ’pus and the morning offerings, and headed uphill.
By the end of the day, I still hadn’t reached the summit. The mountain seemed to go on forever.
As I bedded down for the night, I watched the ’puses on the trees around me. There was a period every evening, right around dusk, when they abandoned their camouflage and put on a short symphony of color. It started as I lay there. Pulses and flashes of color lit up the trunks and branches as far as I could see. They hit every shade in the rainbow, and then some, the colors moving across the forest in vast waves.
The display was completely silent and quite beautiful. Even as exhausted and frightened as I was, it was hard not to be filled with wonder. How many people got to see something like this?
Not many, I thought.
Let’s just hope you’re not the only one, ever, pessimistic Beth chimed in.
20
“A sink hole formed here, without warning,” Cordus said. “Apparently an underground spring shifted and began to saturate the soil some months ago. The earth liquefied just as Mr. Ryzik joined Miss Ryder in the room. That is the kind of event his gift creates.”
Ghosteater tasted the air in the room and was surprised. “The woman Justine was here.”
“Yes. She was staying in this room.”
Ghosteater circled the hole, then jumped down into it, sniffing carefully.
Justine had been under the dirt. The scents had been trampled by those who came to dig her out, but he could still read them — her burial beneath falling earth, the place where the she-pup had lain, the carven strait falling toward the bottom of the pit, the moment the she-pup touched it. He tasted the slightly burned scent of her passage through the strait. He smelled Ryzik’s scramble down into the hole, his brief effort to uncover Justine, his terrified flight with the carven strait hidden in his clothing.
“I will track him. You cannot keep up with me. I will track alone, then return for you.”
“If you carry this device with you, I can follow you by car.” Cordus held out a small, dark, boxy thing. “It is a tracking machine. It poses no danger to you.”
So, the émigré wanted to be there at the end of the hunt, to best the prey and claim it for himself. He wanted the kill.
Ghosteater didn’t object — he had no use for Ryzik. He permitted Cordus to put a loop of rope around his neck and clip the object to it. He could slice it off in an instant, if need be.
He stepped into the silence and loped out of the house, allowing Ryzik’s scent to guide him over the lawns to the edge of the property, where he went through Cordus’s barrier with an uncomfortable tingle. He passed the blood the barrier had cost the man, smelled his pain.
The trail led to a highway, where he could tell the man had entered a vehicle. He followed more carefully, then, since human habitations were thick.
He found that the car had passed over a river by bridge. Would the silence truly hide him on that slender span of rock and metal, teeming with cars? He wasn’t sure. Best not to take a chance.
Quietly, he slipped into the water.
Ghosteater slid into an alley at the last moment. The runaway city bus careened past him and struck a building. He moved away from the stink of fuel and the screams of the injured.
He’d been working his way through the great city for more than a day. The unusual gift of the one he tracked created havoc all around him. Accidents befell him at every turn — cars ran up onto the sidewalk, heavy things fell from windows, tall poles came crashing down, hordes of rats emerged from sewers, gunfire sowed panic, scaffolding collapsed, riots blocked streets, gas leaked from beneath the ground and exploded.
Each time, he had avoided injury, but the delays mounted. Ryzik was still at least an hour ahead and had kept moving.
Ghosteater wondered where the émigré was. Perhaps he had rethought his desire to follow. It wouldn’t be surprising. Trailing Ryzik was far more challenging than Ghosteater had thought it would be, and the human powers were known for caution.
The beast leapt sideways, avoiding an avalanche of falling masonry. At long last, the man had stopped moving. Ghosteater had tracked him to the basement of an old building in the southern reaches of the island. The falling stone had blocked the window he had been about to slide through. He circled the building, looking for another way in.
There were no other windows into the basement. Instead, he used the building’s main entrance, drawing his claws from the silence to carve through the locked door. He padded around the ground level until he found the stairwell leading down. He pushed the door open and paused. With a shudder and crash, the staircase collapsed.
Turning away from the heap of rubble, he found another shaft leading down. He cut his way in, then jerked back just in time as the building’s elevator went hurtling past. Once it hit bottom, he jumped down onto it and dug through to the basement. His claws were strong, but they were not meant for steel. The process took a while, but Ryzik’s own luck had trapped him down there.
When the wolf at last saw his quarry, he was saddened. The man lay against a wall, exhausted, filthy, trembling, covered with wounds. Ghosteater understood — humans were not designed to run, without sleep, for four days. Nevertheless, it was a depressing
end to a challenging hunt. The man had proven far worthier than the beast had expected. Dangerous indeed.
He advanced, then jumped aside as a heavy pipe fell from the ceiling.
Ryzik’s eyes opened halfway. “Saw you cut them down,” he whispered. “Shadows of Marshwren. Only thing that made them bleed.”
Ghosteater paused, surprised. If this man had been at Marshwren, he was older than expected. Older than the émigré knew, perhaps. He approached the man and nosed him, inhaling, searching for the subtlest of clues. Yes, from the other realm and quite old for his kind.
“Why are you here, native?”
The man touched Ghosteater’s foreleg. “Strong,” he whispered.
He was almost drained, close to losing consciousness.
“Native, why are you here?” Ghosteater repeated.
“Fugitive.”
The wolf understood, then, to some degree. The humans made laws, snared one another in them, punished those who transgressed. Sometimes the transgressors escaped. This world had long provided a hiding place for fugitives from the other.
It was such a one who had ensnared him in years past and led him to the rending fields at Marshwren and elsewhere.
Ghosteater pushed the memory away. The man here before him was another.
He thought instead about laws. Their virtue escaped him. Beasts had a different way — the strongest ruled until a stronger one emerged. To structure and bind existence in a system of laws and submit oneself to them — this was repellent to him. A law had no claws of its own. It had no teeth. Thus it should have no sway.
Whatever rules Ryzik had broken didn’t matter to Ghosteater. He thought about the situation.
Initially, this man had not interested him enough to squabble with the émigré. Now he did — so worthy an adversary. Looking down at the crumpled figure, the beast laid claim to him as prey taken. Now he alone had the right to kill him, and that he chose not to do, at least for the time being.
“Rest, fugitive. I will guard you.”
Two hours later, someone used an essence-worked barrier to punch through one of the basement walls. Ghosteater raised his head and watched Cordus and several of his people climb through the hole. The fugitive was sleeping behind him. Ghosteater yawned expansively, showing off his teeth.
“Émigré.”
“Elder beast,” Cordus said, “I am sorry to have been delayed. The device I gave you stopped functioning before you reached the city.”
Ghosteater looked back at him, not feeling a response was needed.
Cordus’s eyes shifted. “I see you have found him.”
“Worthy prey,” Ghosteater said. “He is mine.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. The beast studied the people Cordus had brought. One of them was a barrier-worker. He had some strength. Nevertheless, none of them posed a threat. The émigré, of course, did.
Finally Cordus said, “I recognize that you claim him as prey, but Miss Ryder must be recovered. You will not prevent me from doing so, even at the cost of Mr. Ryzik’s life.”
Ghosteater thought about it. In his eyes, Cordus had no particular right to the she-pup — he could find what he was sharp enough to track, keep what he was strong enough to hold. Other claims didn’t matter.
On the other hand, the she-pup interested him even more than Ryzik did. He wished to see her again.
“Agreed,” he said, and moved aside.
“Miss Hegstrom,” Cordus said, “examine Mr. Ryzik, but do not go through his clothing.”
One of the émigré’s people came forward and checked the man over.
“He’s drained, exhausted, and dehydrated, and the barrier did some damage. I don’t see any mortal injury.”
Cordus nodded.
Ten minutes later, they had propped Ryzik up in a corner. He was semi-conscious, and the older female — Hegstrom — was spooning broth into his mouth. Cordus and Ghosteater stood back, waiting.
“Mr. Ryzik,” Cordus said.
The man mumbled something unintelligible. Hegstrom gripped him under the chin and forced his face up. He blinked blearily.
“Yeah,” Ryzik said, slurring.
“Where is Miss Ryder?”
“Carven strait. Dunno where it took her.”
“Where is the strait?”
“Pocket.”
“Mr. Williams, bring the strait to me.”
The barrier-worker pulled on a pair of gloves before taking the stone ball out of Ryzik’s pocket. He brought it over to Cordus, who examined it while Williams held it. Eventually, Cordus reached out and took it, not bothering to cover his skin. Everyone in the room felt the strait grasp at him, but with a concentrated expression, Cordus overpowered its pull.
He held the ball for a while, studying it.
Finally he said, “The corresponding strait is in an ancient stratum or isolate of the S-Em. It is functional.”
“Fresh water? Predators? Food supply?” Hegstrom asked.
Cordus shook his head. “That I cannot tell.”
“I’ll go,” Williams said. He smelled annoyed.
“Perhaps,” Cordus said.
Williams frowned. “It’s been four days. Good chance she’s dead already.”
“Nevertheless, this situation requires some thought and planning before anyone enters the strait. Elder beast, I suggest we return to my home. Mr. Ryzik can be cared for there, and we can consider how best to retrieve Miss Ryder.”
Ghosteater stood, assenting.
About six hours later, Ghosteater stood in a small room with Cordus and a handful of his people.
Ryzik was sleeping off his ordeal in the estate’s healing facility, across the hall. So long as he was here, the émigré would keep him drained by force. Ghosteater found the idea unpleasant, but he accepted it — the ways to detain a powerful worker were few.
Cordus had decided that Williams and two others would enter the fragment. The one named Zion was a tracker. She would find the she-pup. The other, Sanchez, was a healer. Williams, the barrier-worker, would protect the group. The team had been equipped with weapons and survival gear.
Ghosteater surveyed the rescue party.
He did not like company.
On the other hand, the idea of entering an ancient stratum piqued his interest. He had explored some parts of the other world, but he found travel there tedious. So many distasteful strata had to be crossed to get to the few good ones. And some strata — the isolates — were entirely disconnected from the main body of the other world. There was a good chance he’d never seen this place.
“I will go.”
Cordus turned to him, surprised. “You care for Miss Ryder?”
Ghosteater looked back at him, silent. He knew better than to reveal his motive. His inclination to curiosity had been exploited before.
“Will you help track Miss Ryder? Her retrieval must be your first priority.”
“I will track her and guard your people.”
“Very well, elder beast,” Cordus said, still looking perplexed. “Zion, you will work with the beast to track Miss Ryder.”
Zion nodded, smelling wary.
Williams went first. Gun drawn and barrier already in place, he approached the strait, which was sitting on the floor. He crouched down and touched it, disappearing with a smell of burned space. Sanchez followed after thirty seconds, also with her weapon ready. Zion went next.
Ghosteater walked to the stone ball and lowered his nose to touch it. He felt the strait open and try to grip him. He resisted, inhaling. Saltwater. Oxygen-rich air and life, abundant life.
“The companion is in the sea,” he said to Cordus. “The place is older than dragons.”
He let the strait take him.
Fifteen minutes later, the rescue party stood on the rocky beach. Ghosteater shook himself and looked over his shoulder at the three humans. Williams had not crafted his barrier to keep out water, so they were wet.
Ghosteater lowered his nose and quickly found the place th
e she-pup had huddled all night, then followed her scent to the edge of the forest. He sat down to wait for the humans, who were still wringing the seawater out of their clothing and packs.
Once the party was ready, they entered the forest.
“Look at that,” Sanchez said, pointing to a boneless sea creature incongruously perched on a tree trunk. She looked around. “There are tons of them.”
Ghosteater approached to sniff the creature and was met with a punch in the nose. He backed away, shaking his head. The animal was powerful, and he knew by scent that there were millions of them in the forest.
“Water-worker?” Williams asked.
“Yes,” Ghosteater said.
The creature had created a small wall of water, then propelled it into his face at high speed. The effect was like being hit in the nose with a rock.
“What do we do?” Sanchez said, looking around nervously.
“Wait ’til they decide we’re not a threat,” Williams said, settling on a root.
Ghosteater lay down in the ferns, then stretched out on his side, exposing his belly. Sanchez and Zion sat down next to Williams, smelling nervous.
After about an hour, one of the creatures approached them. It reached out a tentacle and touched the healer’s hand.
“Ugh, gross!”
The creature withdrew.
Zion made a disapproving sound. “Be nice to them, dumbass.”
“Easy for you to say.” Sanchez wiped her hand on her pants. “It touched me, not you.”
Williams slowly held his hand out to the animal, which had bunched itself up defensively.
“Peace, little one.”
Tentatively, it touched his hand. When Williams didn’t react, it coiled a tentacle around his wrist and began moving up.
“Oh my god, you’ve got to be kidding,” Sanchez said.
“Shhhhh.”
“Fuck off, Zion.”
Ghosteater thought the soft creatures recognized him as a predator, so he lay still and said nothing. The human females’ bickering annoyed him. Perhaps he could eat one of them. It depended on how powerful Cordus actually was and how much he would mind losing a lesser minion.
