I'm left with questions and my own sorry self. Literally.
After Grea's outburst, everyone melts away; Mwat and Jim Engineer wasted no time letting our door swoosh shut behind them. Mum takes a little longer, stares at me.
I wait for her to say something, to explain what Grea meant, where her anger came from, but she leaves without a word.
Dad follows, squeezing my shoulder as he goes, his eyes on Mum and determination in the set of his jaw.
And so I'm left with questions; about Jim, about Mum, about Grea. Questions piling upon questions and no answers in sight. Just a holo rotating over the kitchen bench, rotating a fraction of a millimetre a second, like it's caught in molasses. There's something familiar about its form, two egg-shaped blobs melded together, the bottom one a third of the size of the top. It's not until I get closer that I start to make out what it is, sorting out the rounded point of a bow and the flat protrusions of the engine ports. Part of it, the bit that's being swallowed by the bigger egg, reminds me of Citlali, the way the underside swoops upward to meet the nose.
I pad closer until I'm leaning on the bench, getting as close to the holo as I can without sticking my head in it. There're the maintenance tubes that run around Citlali's middle, and there, just below the bulge where the bigger egg swallows the smaller, is the indentation that marks the upper shuttle bay.
Eight red spheres pulse on the smaller blob, three on each of the long sides and one each on the top and bottom of the egg. Thin lines trail from each, connecting it to the bigger egg, like the legs of some weird space arachnid holding onto prey.
My brain's still trying to come to grips with what my eyes are processing, and it takes studying the other egg, seeing the lines in its sides, the whorls that don't appear to do anything but make me want to follow them deep into their centre, for understanding to dawn
The small egg reminds of Citlali because it is Citlali, and the red bits are… Grappling cables, the knowledge comes from the awareness in my gut, pulling images of giant hooks buried deep in Citlali's hull, the ends growing, morphing to become part of the superstructure. Which would make the bigger egg, the one with the whorls...
'Aeotu,' I whisper.
Sister.
I jerk back.
It was just in my head. Just in my head.
And not in my head psionically, but a figment of my imagination. I'm telling myself that, but it's not comforting; makes my insides curl and my breath come short, 'cause, Old Terra. It's bad enough when it's Aeotu talking to me, reaching out over the psionic plane or creeping into my comms, but now I'm psyching myself out. Now I'm letting her in.
And she sounds like Grea.
That's what makes it really scary. What makes my insides shrivel and cold take over my guts. The dream-memory of being curled up with Grea, Aeotu behind her eyes, the darkness, and remembering the darker red in her presence when she took over my mouth. Not Aeotu but something like Aeotu.
When did the darkness behind her eyes change? When did Aeotu become Aeotu-but-not? So much has changed in the time I was asleep, least of all me.
Betrayal is a sour emotion, one that wraps around your heart and makes it curdle until the blood in your veins has spikes aimed right at the beating muscle. It's not something I've experienced much, not an emotion I've ever tried to foist on others, but I've sensed it, floating on the wind. Before we went into stasis/sleep, it had clung to Jim's partner. I'd brushed up against it, but hadn't gone further. Hadn't wanted to.
I don't want to feel this, don't want the weight of it in my chest when I think of my twin coming to me in the escape pod, starting this whole thing, and yet...
I'm sorry. Grea speaks in the back of my head, and for a moment, she's hovering over the kitchen bench, a ghost flickering within the mess of Aeotu devouring Citlali.
And she is, for the most part. Why'd you do it? I ask.
I told you; you were leaving me.
I shake my head. It's more than that. You said we were going to live forever. What'd you mean?
The ghost cocks her head. Don't you want to live forever?
I want to know what you meant by it.
I meant what I said.
People don't live forever, Grea. It's biologically impossible.
Grea frowns. Why are you arguing with me fathead?
I just... I can't answer. There is no answer, except that I feel it, deep within, coming from the place where the awareness sleeps, the knowledge that Grea is keeping something from me. You're not telling me everything.
I don't have to tell you everything. You're my brother, not my conscience.
Why'd you say that?
Say what?
That I'm not your conscience?
There's no answer. Silence rules the psionic plane and the ghost on the kitchen bench freezes, like a holo vid on pause. A smudge of vomit-green stains the bench at Grea's feet and I realise I'm seeing her on the eter, that I've half-slipped onto the psionic plane without knowing it, and as soon as that knowledge lights up my brain, I notice other things.
Things like the guilt Grea is struggling to cover up, trying to pull back into herself, and Dude, all sleeked out on my shoulder, tiny fangs bared.
If I thought Aeotu sounding like my twin had frozen my gut before, I was wrong. The guilt at Grea's feet makes my whole body cold, turns me into a void-frozen block of Kuma meat. What have you done?
Nothing. Except her answer is rich with lies, black curling through the vibrant cherry strands that make up her psyche.
I don't tell her not to lie, my disbelief does it for me, colouring the eter, a thick bronze, reaching out to Grea.
Again, silence wraps around my frozen sister. A barrier becoming thicker and thicker with every beat of our hearts, until it's visible, a solid wall of air. Cutting us off, doing all it can to strangle the connection that is us.
I'll find out, I say.
You should worry less about me and more about Ma.
Grea's trying to distract me with that, to stop me from chasing the lie. I should ignore it, I know I should but—
What about Mum?
It was her idea to kill them. An image of Horn, the wrongness clinging to him, his torn throat.
Grea smiles, the stretch of her lips thin, teeth sharp points, and starts to fade, her ghost becoming thinner. She's a mirage before I know what's happening, there and not.
Grea! I dive after her, leaving the physical world behind, Dude coming with me.
The wall she built is still there, thick and tall, blocking my way. I pound against it, throwing determination into the bricks along with my fists. It doesn't move, and behind it, the sense of Grea fades further.
No. No. No. No. Every denial is a strike against the barrier, an explosion of the emotions I've tucked into the pit of my being. Of anger. Of terror. Of the heart-stopping fear that everyone and everything I've ever loved is dead and gone. There's betrayal in there as well, the viscous stuff of it coating my knuckles, forming spiky ridges like a psionic version of the fug-armour.
The fug-armour.
I look down, and there it is, a shadow over my body. Pulsing with power. Power I can feel, like the too-big lungs. A great well of it rising up from my feet, coming from the place where the awareness lives. It rushes through my skin, a miniature sun at my command.
A thought, and it's pouring through my bones, forming a bright molten gauntlet above my fist. I flex my fingers, regard the barrier and strike.
The wall shatters, but Grea is gone. There's a trace of her left behind, a kind of psionic footprint, and in it there's a shimmer of emotion that doesn't belong. That's Aeotu-but-not. The memory is hazy, slipping out of my reach.
I wrap my hands in the stuff, but they slip through, like the red isn't there except—
A hand on my arm. Not Grea's. It's barely human, almost black but with a hint of something, green maybe, and shiny. Smooth, like liquid metal with shapes moving under the surface, shadows upon shadows. Light gleaming in dark green highlights. Five fingers ending not in neatly clipped nails or the fug talons that cover my own, but in long sharp spikes, seamless from knuckle to wicked end. It's attached to a wrist covered in the same liquid shiny, then an arm, a shoulder, a neck, a— A face? There's a head, as smooth as the rest of it, things that might be ears protruding from the sides in little bumps. I recognise the shape of a jaw, the dome of a skull, the lines and hollows of the tendons and collarbones that hold it up, even the bump of an Adam's apple, but the rest?
There's no nose, no mouth, no eyes. If Core had no physical features, if her avatar where the colour of midnight under a forest canopy, it'd look like this. Featureless. Freaky as fuck.
It's an up-close-and-personal look at the figure from Onah's memories; the dark, sleek being that cut through the tree-kin. There's more to it though, something that halts the panic rising in my chest, that spreads a familiar wave of warmth through it. A scent of... cumin and oranges and the indescribable shimmer of power that I've only ever sensed from one person.
I peer closer, try to peel back the layers of the eter and see under their skin. For a moment it feels like there's something reaching back, struggling to push through the shapes moving under the shiny surface.
'Mac?'
Joy. It's short. A brief spark of pink caught out the corner of my eye, sparkling under the thing's grip on my shoulder, and then it's gone. Disappeared like it never was, and all that I'm left with is... nothing. The eter is empty of emotion, or thought. Just me and Mac/not-Mac standing here, only his grip assuring me that this is real—
Pain. My pain. Mac's finger-spikes driving into my flesh, then feathers and fangs and the chilling scree of a qwan and then Mac is gone, vanished before I've had a chance to draw breath.
In his place is a storm of talons and lashing tails, of the musk of kin, storming around me, over me and then they too are gone, leaving blood, rage, and Onah in their wake.
The qwan stands in front of me. Tall. Proud. The dark purple feathers of his crest standing on end, both sets of wings partially spread, like he's going to take flight at any moment. Or he's just really, really pissed off.
It came to you. It's an accusation, the white/black of Onah's suspicion driving a knife thrust at my mind, the point sticking in my shields, trying to get through. Why?
I stumble. 'It was Mac, my best friend.' The words are out of my mouth, are flying through the air, my own daggers aimed at Onah's heart.
They're struck from the air, thrown back at me along with a fresh wave of suspicion, another assault against my shields. It is not your friend.
'It is, I felt him.' I grip Onah's knife in both hands. It's a thing of pure thought, shaped by my own imagining of it, given weight and substance by Onah's intent. Touching it is like reaching into the air-kin and wrapping my hands around his anima, or a pale imitation of it. It vibrates with the essence of him – white around a boiling darkness – rippling over my skin, pieces of it wrapping around my fingers, digging into my flesh like tiny talons.
Onah resists, pushes harder against the thin mental barrier that keeps the world separate, that keeps me private.
What Onah's doing is against kin law, against the rules that make it possible for psions to live with each other and not go insane. I'm straining to keep the tip from going deeper, arms straining, muscles from bicep to chest, to back to thighs, every fibre standing on end.
'Why are you doing this?' My voices shakes.
There's no answer, nothing save another push on the knife. He doesn't move but to draw his wings a little higher, to lean a little further forward, putting physical weight behind the psionic lance he's driving through my shields.
I push back, but I know, right in the heart of me, that it's not going to be enough.
Gold races over my hands on six tiny paws, leaps from the end of the knife. Dude flings himself in Onah's face, and if I thought Onah was a wrecking ball, Dude is an asteroid slamming into a planet.
Pieces of Onah fly, slamming into my shields, finding a crack.
I'm getting all too used to fear, the heft of it, the way it seeps between your thoughts. This fear has the soft, sly glide of secrets and the rotten stench of old shame. It brings with it a fragment of memory, flashes of AD Tudor sitting with the beacon in his lap, red encasing his hands and crawling over his chest. Darkness forms a cowl around his neck. There's something linked to the darkness, a knowledge passed from generation to generation, ringing with the dual lights of time and desperation.
Understanding is right there, obscured by the desperation, and I know that if I could just reach through and touch it—
Dude rockets into me, pushing me out of the eter.
I'm slumped against the kitchen bench, my arse on the floor, legs sprawled out before me. I've got a good view of my fug-feet from here, a real chance to study the play of tendons under the grey-green skin. When did the fug-feet get tendons? And while I'm on that, when did my toes start to look like toes? Longer and thinner, still three of them, still with the black tips of claws at the end; not human, not even close, but no longer quite as emu-like.
There's a hum from my shoulder, the soft brush of fur against my cheek, and I'm looking up, steering my mind away from the horror-wonder of my changing self to what's on the other side.
Dad's crouched in front of me. His shipsuit needs an injection of nanites, the fabric over his knees is thin, and the bottom of his cuffs where they brush the top of his boots, frayed. Concern is rolling off him, a gentle wave of pale blue butting up against my feet. Against my feet and not my head because he's crouched a half-metre away. A half-metre of the universe between him and me, between the joy I felt when he hugged me to the cold that lodges in my heart and grows.
And behind him... behind him are the others. Mum and Jim Engineer, Onah and Mwat all of them staring at me. Jim's got his hand on Mum's shoulder, holding her back, but she's not fighting that hard. There's an extra metre of distance between her and Dad, an extra ocean to cross.
That cold thing in my chest, I'm not going to let it hurt, not going to let it grow. Not going to let it twist and turn and become the hot, resentful thing lurking right in the depths of my being.
'Kuma?' Dad's reaching out to me, and while it looks like he's crossing that ocean of distance, he's pushing reluctance ahead of him. 'Are you back?'
My gaze darts behind him, to the kin and to Onah. His upper eyes are open, a hot orange. Warning flashes in them, a hint of the anger and pain that saturated the eter.
I can't help but look at Mum, can't help but see Horn's face laid over hers, can't help the echo of Grea's accusation.
It was her idea.
I don't want to believe it, to think it. It makes me sick, makes me want to curl in on myself and scream, but I guess I know the meaning behind Grea's words when she took over my mouth, what made Mum's complexion pale.
'Yeah,' I say, slowly turning my gaze back to Dad. 'I'm back.'
And I'm pissed, and that pissed-off-ness feeds the resentment brewing in my gut.
Dad inches forward, his hand still out, and I can feel his desire to help me, but that reluctance sours it. 'What happened?' he says.
I get my fug-feet under me and rise, ignoring the hand. 'I felt Grea.' A half-truth feels safe, easy and responsible. But I'm looking at Mum again, seeing Horn, and under it all... I meet Onah's gaze again. He's closed his upper eyes, and his lower ones, a rich deep green, are dark with caution and not a little fear.
On my shoulder, Dude growls, so low I doubt anyone but me can hear, and it's like he's echoing the nasty thing in my gut, the resentment and anger, all the stuff I've been denying. And I just want to get rid of it, to make everyone feel like this; so they know, so they understand.
My lip twists, my nose following and I picture my face twisted in a snarl to make h'Rawd jealous.
A throat clears, and Dad's rising, frustration fighting with anger in his eyes.
He holds out his hand. 'Kuma, we've been talking. About how to help you.'
Dad's good at keeping his emotions in check, not as good as Mum, but pretty decent, good enough that what he's feeling doesn't pound at my brain. And usually, usually I'm polite enough not to pry, but what worked before – before the fug and Aeotu – what worked then doesn't now.
Dad wouldn't hurt me, Mum would either, or Onah or even Mwat, but there's deception in Dad's words.
Deception has a strange flavour, it doesn't really taste like anything, just kinda slides over your tongue, a ghost of a favoured desert, or the scent of a treasured memory, saying 'look over there, remember that'. It's different from person-to-person, changing with their intent, but always leaving a silvery trail in its wake.
As a kid, it took me awhile to figure it out. Maybe if AD Tudor had been alive, I'd have caught on quicker.
I ignore Dad's outstretched hand, keeping my back to the kitchen bench, away from the lies and resentment in front of me.
The awareness whispers, {{ Danger. }}
Yeah. I know, and it makes my heart ache.
It's Mwat who speaks first. Something speaks to you, little kin. She fluffs her wings and waddles around the table, her tail dragging on the deck. What is it?
Pressure against my skull, tells me that she's trying to send more than words into my brain. I push her off.
'Get out of my head.'
You are full of secrets. There's no accusation in Mwat's tone, just curiosity.
'I guess I fit right in then.' And now I'm staring Onah in the eye, not the lower ones, but the upper. A kin's upper eyes are portals to their eter, and meeting them is akin to shoving your way into their mind and daring them to put you back in your place with teeth and talons.
Doing it now feels dangerous, feels like an invasion of privacy and respect, but you know what? I don't care. None of the kin seem terribly shy about invading my privacy, and the only respect I've found is at the end of my fug blades. It's time for a little turnabout, time for me to stand on my own two fug-feet and shove all the things I've done for the Citlali in their scared, ungrateful faces.
Onah blinks, upper lids sliding closed, the gesture the same as a human looking away.
A cheer echoes from the back of my mind, carried on a wave of cherry. Grea.
The warmth of it gives me the courage to turn the challenge on Mum. She's as close to a psionic null as anyone gets on Citlali, with just enough of the empath gene in her DNA to classify her as Jørgen. Challenging her to a psionic duel is about as effective as trying to light a fire in vacuum, and maybe that's what makes her so good at the stare-off.
She meets my gaze head on, and while there's guilt in her aura – still making my insides shrivel, despite Grea – there's no apology, no shame.
'Whatever your sister told you, Kuma, it had to be done.' Her voice is soft, but sure. It disturbs me more than the dismay that colours her aura every time she looks at me. Disturbs me because it feels so final, carries so much conviction.
I break the stare. Clear my throat. 'She says that it was your idea to kill my friends.'
'It was but I had a reason, a good reason.'
'What's so good about—'
There's a click, the awareness yelling {{ Danger! }}, Dude snarling, and a cherry-red bloom of fury so strong it knocks me off my feet. That's what saves me.
The energy bolt slams into the bulkhead where my head used to be.
No one moves, save Jim, re-aiming the pistol.
Of course, kin don't have to move.
No. Mwat has no hesitation, no finesse, she's a sledgehammer exploding through the psionic plane.
Jim Engineer vibrates in the qwan's psionic grip, tendons standing on end, muscles bulging, his rage bursting from his veins, unable to move.
No, Mwat says again. Kuma is kin; we do not kill our own. And now her gaze meets mine, red upper eyes unflinching and without challenge. An image of the place I woke up flashes between us. It's the first time I have actually seen it, the mounds of fug, the pale glimpse of hands and feet, the familiar faces. We had our reasons for what we did. Not all of those taken were as you, not all were whole.
There is more behind that, a whole solar system of memories held behind Mwat's eyes. I know without asking that she won't share.
Go, little kin. Mwat ruffles her feathers. We will take care of this.
There's nothing more to say, not with Jim's whole body shaking with the effort to shoot me.
I roll up off the deck and glide away.