metal. Scattered, several fragments lay between the woman’s legs, several more to the left of her torso. Only padres could touch metal. Metal was what made padres padres. Pan Renik’s mouth had gone dry. Reaching out with one arm, entranced, he could not quite bring himself to lay his fingers on the glinting shapes. Would metal burn him? Or would Anu suddenly descend, to strike him dead, if he touched this sacred material?
He spat off to the side.
What the woman lay on, he saw, in the pre-dawn light (which was creeping across the clouds in his direction with slowly increasing intensity), appeared to be a blanket of sorts, a greasy membrane, spread out across the twigs and branches. The woman’s thick arms, trembling in spasm, were bound within the structure by straps.
He saw the whites of her eyes now.
Her back was broken. He knew. He could tell.
Then, suddenly, Pan Renik understood something else, understood something as clearly as he had ever understood anything in his life: the woman had flown to his nest, like a glider, through the skies. From another place, from another world. The device that lay broken in his nest had caused her to fly.
She had dropped into his home. A gift .
“Where you from?” he asked, awed. “Where do you come from?”
“Hypoxia.” The woman’s chest seemed broad and strong, yet struggled to rise.
“Hypoxia.” Repeating the word, tasting its magic, Pan Renik could not help but think that hypoxia might be the place the winds came from, the place of his imagination, and to conjure in his mind this other world, one where he would be able to come and go without fear of being chased away, where his past would be forgotten and forgiven. A place where he would not be an exile, nor ever be hungry or lonely. There would be riches there, too, metals of all sorts, and food to be taken by handfuls and stuffed into his face until his belly was finally, once and for all, full.
Through the visor, Pan Renik discerned the altering expression on the woman’s face as he climbed carefully up onto the rim of his nest. He crouched over her, making sure his toes curled on branches and not on the giant membrane, protecting it from his long toenails. She looked at him, perplexed. Concerned. Maybe even a little hopeful? He took great care, as he moved closer, not to damage the frame of the precious device.
Beneath the woman’s shoulder protruded the handle of his wooden mace. He had made this weapon himself, using bark and cloth to smooth the wood. Touching the mace now, rubbing the shaft with his rough fingertips, he said, “And where were you going?” He almost asked, Who knows you are here ?, but decided, at the last moment, to shut up.
Holding the shaft of the mace made him feel stronger, confident; he ground his remaining teeth together, recalling (with great distaste and shame) his earlier fear—fear that this woman had caused.
Meanwhile, she coughed, and continued coughing for some time, unable to offer any response. When she did speak again, Pan Renik no longer understood the words she used, for they were not in his tongue.
He began to work the mace out from under her heavy body.
“Rescue,” she said, suddenly, her voice dry and weakened, struggling to lift one hand toward him. “My friends are still there. I must tell someone. Listen. If they come looking for us. We found a ship. In stasis. A mother. We boarded her. But she wasn’t discarded. And I took her seegee from her console. I stole it. And when I touched the surface, I felt the connection, the jolt. She used me. She was waiting for someone, someone like me, for ages. Her symbiotes had all been killed. But there was a brood ship. And when we tried to get away, we were shot down.” She licked her lips. “It’s insane. This world. We crashed . . . But I came up again, to send for help, because no transmissions get out from these horrid clouds. My friends told me it was crazy but I insisted. They were waiting. The drones.
He spat off to the side.
What the woman lay on, he saw, in the pre-dawn light (which was creeping across the clouds in his direction with slowly increasing intensity), appeared to be a blanket of sorts, a greasy membrane, spread out across the twigs and branches. The woman’s thick arms, trembling in spasm, were bound within the structure by straps.
He saw the whites of her eyes now.
Her back was broken. He knew. He could tell.
Then, suddenly, Pan Renik understood something else, understood something as clearly as he had ever understood anything in his life: the woman had flown to his nest, like a glider, through the skies. From another place, from another world. The device that lay broken in his nest had caused her to fly.
She had dropped into his home. A gift .
“Where you from?” he asked, awed. “Where do you come from?”
“Hypoxia.” The woman’s chest seemed broad and strong, yet struggled to rise.
“Hypoxia.” Repeating the word, tasting its magic, Pan Renik could not help but think that hypoxia might be the place the winds came from, the place of his imagination, and to conjure in his mind this other world, one where he would be able to come and go without fear of being chased away, where his past would be forgotten and forgiven. A place where he would not be an exile, nor ever be hungry or lonely. There would be riches there, too, metals of all sorts, and food to be taken by handfuls and stuffed into his face until his belly was finally, once and for all, full.
Through the visor, Pan Renik discerned the altering expression on the woman’s face as he climbed carefully up onto the rim of his nest. He crouched over her, making sure his toes curled on branches and not on the giant membrane, protecting it from his long toenails. She looked at him, perplexed. Concerned. Maybe even a little hopeful? He took great care, as he moved closer, not to damage the frame of the precious device.
Beneath the woman’s shoulder protruded the handle of his wooden mace. He had made this weapon himself, using bark and cloth to smooth the wood. Touching the mace now, rubbing the shaft with his rough fingertips, he said, “And where were you going?” He almost asked, Who knows you are here ?, but decided, at the last moment, to shut up.
Holding the shaft of the mace made him feel stronger, confident; he ground his remaining teeth together, recalling (with great distaste and shame) his earlier fear—fear that this woman had caused.
Meanwhile, she coughed, and continued coughing for some time, unable to offer any response. When she did speak again, Pan Renik no longer understood the words she used, for they were not in his tongue.
He began to work the mace out from under her heavy body.
“Rescue,” she said, suddenly, her voice dry and weakened, struggling to lift one hand toward him. “My friends are still there. I must tell someone. Listen. If they come looking for us. We found a ship. In stasis. A mother. We boarded her. But she wasn’t discarded. And I took her seegee from her console. I stole it. And when I touched the surface, I felt the connection, the jolt. She used me. She was waiting for someone, someone like me, for ages. Her symbiotes had all been killed. But there was a brood ship. And when we tried to get away, we were shot down.” She licked her lips. “It’s insane. This world. We crashed . . . But I came up again, to send for help, because no transmissions get out from these horrid clouds. My friends told me it was crazy but I insisted. They were waiting. The drones.
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