The Dark Between the Stars Read online

  The girl waved, and Jora’h raised his hand, obviously proud—and with good reason, Yazra’h knew . . . unfortunately, the Mage-Imperator’s praise would not make Muree’n any easier to control.

  FIFTEEN

  PRINCE REYN

  The trees on Theroc towered taller than most skyscrapers on Earth—or so Prince Reyn had heard. He would see for himself, soon enough. The worldforest conveyed a true feeling of vastness, but Theroc was just one of so many worlds in the Confederation. It was intimidating!

  His sister Arita had visited many more worlds than he had, studying alien plants and fungi. Even now, she was off on an empty Klikiss planet studying sentient cacti. Reyn missed her. . . .

  As the twenty-year-old son of King Peter and Queen Estarra, he had met many important diplomats, but he had not traveled much himself. Soon, though . . . He needed to see more, learn more, experience more if he was going to be the Confederation’s next King.

  The Confederation’s official capital was here on Theroc. From there, the King and Queen guided the various planets and peoples in the human alliance. The main governing structure was a fungus-reef that covered large sections of an enormous worldtree. On six adjacent trees, smaller fungus-reefs formed Confederation office complexes and residential structures for visiting dignitaries. The hard shelf fungi growths had been hollowed out and turned into a city suspended above the ground, studded with balconies and openings at all levels.

  After checking his chronometer, Reyn tightened the sash around his indigo tunic and set out. The fungus-reef structure bustled with business conversations, tourists. Jewel-winged insects flitted about, as well as flying contraptions made from discarded condorfly wings grafted onto engines.

  Reyn rode the lift to the canopy, where the sky opened up and ships could land. The historian Anton Colicos would arrive soon from Ildira with his newly translated section of the Saga of Seven Suns, which he would present to the green priests.

  Reyn’s parents both had full schedules, but since Anton Colicos was an important visitor, King Peter had turned to his son. “Receive him with proper formalities, then take him to see Kennebar. The green priests will want him to start reading aloud to the trees right away. We’ll hold a formal reception later in the evening—there’s supposed to be a firefly storm tonight.” Peter frowned as he saw what appeared to be hesitation on Reyn’s face. “You’ll do fine.”

  It was not hesitation, though. Reyn felt a shotgun blast of pain through his nerves, as if a set of white-hot wires had been yanked through his body with a swift, vicious jerk. He had to devote his full concentration to hide the pain, refusing to let his father see. He clenched his left hand, focused his thoughts there, forced the tremors to go away.

  “Yes, I’ll do fine,” Reyn echoed, letting his father interpret the reluctance as shyness. “I’m sure I’ll get along with Anton Colicos.” Neither of his parents knew how much the pain increased month by month; he had managed to hide it from them so far. Only Arita knew, and she wasn’t here. . . .

  The canopy level was a vast prairie of interlocked worldtree fronds with some sections paved over so that spacecraft could land. Ships circled and hummed as they settled down. Silver observation towers directed traffic. As he watched, a cargo ship fired its engines and accelerated up to the stratosphere, unreeling a long vapor trail behind it.

  Reyn watched three green priests board a bright shuttle, each one carrying a potted treeling, ready to set out as ambassadors or missionaries. Many green priests were leaving Theroc to offer their services to the Confederation, to private employers, and also to help spread the interconnected verdani mind.

  Some distance from the paved landing zone, another group of green priests sat among the scattered fronds. Four emerald-skinned priests guided the acolytes, singing songs, telling tales, dictating histories and technical reports—any sort of information whatsoever—to the voraciously curious worldforest.

  Reyn adjusted his tunic, checked the schedule, and saw that Anton Colicos’s shuttle had already arrived, unexpectedly early—a regular supply transport, rather than a flashy Ildiran ship. Reyn knew he would see plenty of Ildiran architecture and vessels when he visited the alien empire. Soon.

  The human scholar stood outside the shuttle holding a satchel, and Reyn recognized him from images. Anton wore loose and comfortable clothes, obviously of Ildiran manufacture. He blinked around him at the tall trees.

  The historian was quite a celebrity, though he didn’t seem to know his own importance. Reyn had read some of those books during his private tutoring—most students did.

  Nervousness at meeting the man made his tremors increase. Reyn clenched his fist, pushed back the pain, and smiled as he came forward. “Anton Colicos, I am Prince Reynald of Theroc, son of King Peter and Queen Estarra. My parents dispatched me here to meet you.”

  With a smile, Anton held up his satchel. “I don’t need any fancy reception, just want to present my work to the green priests. The man I’m supposed to meet is named Kennebar?”

  “Kennebar leads a group of green priests, and he’s very interested in your new translation, sir.”

  Anton chuckled. “A genuine Prince is calling me sir? No need for that. Why don’t you just call me Anton, and I’ll call you Reynald?”

  “Better yet, call me Reyn. Everyone does.” He was anxious to hear Anton talk about Ildira, since he would be visiting there soon. “How long will you be staying on Theroc?”

  “Oh, just long enough to read a few hundred pages,” Anton said. “I need to get back to Mijistra. We recently uncovered a treasure trove of ancient documents that tell stories nobody has seen in thousands of years, and I’m anxious to read more.”

  They made their way across the tree canopy toward the green priests sitting among the fronds. Reyn considered Kennebar a stiff man, so devoted to the trees that he himself seemed to be made of wood. The leader rose from his perch and balanced on a branch with his bare feet. His skin was a rich green, and he wore only a loincloth. His muscular body was dotted with tattoos that showed his areas of expertise. “Anton Colicos, we look forward to more of the Saga. The worldforest would find it most interesting if you read portions aloud yourself.”

  Anton lifted his satchel. “I have it ready here. I’ve read aloud to audiences before, though not usually to a group of trees.”

  Reyn smiled. “Well, these aren’t just normal trees.”

  Anton smiled. “I know that very well.”

  Several other green priests gathered around Kennebar, silent and respectful. Reyn recognized Collin, a young man who had been very close with Arita, before the worldforest accepted him as a green priest and rejected her. The rest of the acolytes were children with pale or brown skin, but they all hoped to take the green someday when they were ready.

  Kennebar nodded toward his followers. “This is what green priests should be doing, not flying off to sell themselves. We were made to serve the verdani, not human ambitions.” He gave Reyn a brusque dismissal. “You may leave the historian with us. We will take care of him.”

  “He just got off the ship,” Reyn said. “Maybe he’d like time to—”

  Kennebar remained stern. “After a long trip, he will be pleased to energize himself out here in the open among the trees.”

  Reyn left the historian with the green priests and headed back down to the fungus-reef.

  Peter and Estarra had the grand throne room to themselves. It was their habit to have at least one calm hour in the afternoon alone together. The fungus-reef walls were soft and warm, the throne room welcoming, yet spectacular.

  Reyn’s parents sat in ornate chairs, though they had changed out of the insect-wing and beetle-shell ornamentation that Therons expected of their leaders. (The Confederation favored more businesslike attire.)

  When he joined them, Estarra stood and stretched. “We have lunch, Reyn—join us. How did you like the historian?”

  “He’s an intelligent man, very interesting.” Reyn paused in front of the ta
ble where Theron fruits, nuts, and skewers of roasted insects had been laid out. He plucked one of his favorite beetles out of a buttery sauce, cracked it open, and sucked out the sweet meat.

  Peter was a handsome man in his midforties with blond hair and blue eyes. Estarra was a dark-skinned beauty with lush hair wrapped in a nest of braids. Although theirs had been a political marriage of an unlikely pair, they had genuinely grown to love each other as they fought the powerful forces arrayed against them.

  “We made all the travel preparations for you and arranged meetings with necessary officials on Earth,” Peter said. “Deputy Cain will be your point of contact. Don’t worry, he’s a good man.”

  Estarra picked up a pair-pear, splitting it and handing the other half to Peter. “And Rlinda Kett should be back in her offices on Earth before long. You’ll probably learn more from her than from any dull meetings. She’s more enjoyable to be around than a bunch of politicians.”

  Reyn was quite fond of the big trader; he remembered her booming laugh and enthusiastic hugs from when he was just a little boy. He had other reasons for going to Earth, and much of his hope hinged on what connections he could make; he knew Rlinda could help him out.

  Seated in a chair off to the side, old Father Idriss coughed, grumbled, and cleared his throat as he woke from his nap. Estarra’s father scratched his big square-cut beard, which was now mostly gray instead of black. “Is it lunchtime already? I thought we were just in a meeting.”

  Peter laughed. “Don’t worry I nearly fell asleep too.”

  “Ah, Reynald is here!” Idriss, the former leader of Theroc, leaned forward. “You don’t remind me at all of my own son Reynald, young man, but it’s still a good name. You’ll live up to it. So, you’re off to Ildira now?”

  “Earth first, Grandfather. Then Ildira.”

  “Never been to Ildira.” Idriss cleared his throat again and glanced at the table as if suddenly remembering. “Oh, is it lunchtime already?”

  While Estarra made her father a plate of food, the old man turned to Reyn. “I am proud of you, you know. You’ll be a good King.” He looked around. “Where’s my granddaughter?”

  “Arita’s still on the Klikiss world,” Estarra reminded him.

  “Ah. Don’t like the Klikiss. I thought they were all gone? Well, I’m proud of her too. Tell her that next time she comes home.”

  Reyn wished he could see his sister before he departed; she knew the real reason he wanted to go to Earth. On the other hand, Arita would pester him about his symptoms and worry about him. He didn’t want that either.

  Arita couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t tell anyone about his declining health, but Reyn was a private person. He preferred to listen instead of talk, and he knew there was no treatment for his disease in the standard Theron and Confederation databases.

  He also knew, however, that the Spiral Arm was vast and filled with more things than he could imagine. He intended to keep searching for a cure.

  SIXTEEN

  ARITA

  The cactus-studded desert of the empty Klikiss world was so different from the lush worldforest. The skies of Eljiid were streaked with tan from high levels of blown dust. On Theroc, Arita rarely ever saw the sky unless she climbed up to the top of the canopy. Because of her interest in studying plant species, the young woman had spent most of her life on the jungle floor collecting specimens, cataloguing, sketching, or simply enjoying the exotic flora.

  And Theroc was just one planet out of many planets.

  After she arrived on Eljiid, passing through the Klikiss transportal from the busy hub of Rheindic Co, she claimed a spot in the sprawling research camp that had been established by teams of Confederation scholars. The air was crisp and dry, with an inherent chill; she hoped her traditional Theron cocoonweave garments would be warm enough, especially at night.

  Several independent research teams worked on Eljiid, one of the best preserved of the abandoned Klikiss worlds. Among the teams were university scholars documenting the Klikiss ruins and the vanished insect race, architects studying the alien building materials, transportal specialists monitoring the network of interdimensional gateways. As far as Arita knew, she was the lone botanist.

  When she got there, many of the camp areas were empty because the researchers were still about their day’s work, but others sat outside their tents at tables or under awnings, writing reports, collating specimens. Many of these came out to greet the new arrival who came through the transportal wall, and Arita tried to remember all their names as they introduced themselves. She told them her first name, but did not explain who she was.

  Mr. Bolam, the camp administrator, knew that she was a Princess but did not want to be treated as such; he had been given strict preparation instructions, so he gave Arita no special treatment—per her own request. Because she was only nineteen, though, he treated her like a kid.

  Arita didn’t take long to recognize what sort of man Bolam was. He did not seem interested in the wonders of the alien ruins, the ancient site, even the desert landscape. He clearly didn’t like being on Eljiid. Arita had read a quick summary of his career before traveling through the Klikiss transportal network. Bolam had fallen backward into this position, and the horizon of his ambitions was only an arm’s length in front of his face. In running this encampment, he had reached the peak of his abilities.

  Arita did not need the administrator to pamper her, nor even to be friendly to her. She had come to Eljiid to investigate the armored succulents, spiny cacti, and tortured-looking Joshua tree analogues—and the Whistlers, which fascinated her most. She would keep herself busy.

  After she dropped off her packs and activated the self-erecting tent, Arita looked around her site. At a nearby spot, a desert geologist named Kam Pellieri sat sorting rock samples. He gave her an approving thumbs-up, as if she had done something commendable just by coming here.

  Mr. Bolam checked out Arita’s meager camp setup and asked if she needed anything. “Just need time to explore,” she answered. “I’m self-sufficient.”

  Bolam put his hands on his waist. “In this place, we all have to be. Eljiid’s not actually on the tourist route.”

  Because Arita came from King Peter and Queen Estarra, she did have a few official duties for the Confederation before starting her work. “Could you please take me to the grave of Margaret Colicos?”

  Bolam nodded. “I figured you’d want to see that. Why else would King Peter send his daughter here?”

  “My father didn’t send me. I asked to come—for the Whistlers.”

  Bolam rolled his eyes. “Nobody can figure out those creepy things. Not that anyone’s tried very hard.” He cocked his ear and fell silent for a moment. “You can hear them when the wind picks up, but it’s quiet now.”

  “I’ll go out to the Whistler forest and explore later, but first, I have a plaque. . . .” She squatted in front of the self-erecting tent, rummaged in her pack, and withdrew the engraved, lightweight memorial. “Margaret Colicos did a great service for humanity, and she deserves to be honored.”

  Bolam scratched his left cheek where he had missed a patch while shaving. “The grave’s not much to look at, really. That was before my time here.”

  “The importance is in the woman, not the grave,” Arita said.

  Eljiid was a typical Klikiss world, now known primarily for the fact that Margaret Colicos had died here. The xeno-archaeologist had spent the last years of her life studying the Klikiss, before the Breedex announced it was abandoning the Spiral Arm forever. The insect aliens had departed through the transportal network on a mass migration, leaving behind numerous old drones, whose mummified husks now littered the ruins on many planets, such as this one.

  Margaret Colicos had been buried outside one of the tall structures of the empty hive city. Rocks piled around the grave were neatly arranged; many more had been stacked high, and the stack looked fresh. Arita wondered if Bolam had added to the mound after learning she was coming. Margaret’s na
me had been laser-etched into a smooth stone, but Arita’s plaque was more impressive.

  She found an appropriate place to set the new marker she had brought, and she read the plaque aloud, because it seemed like the thing to do. “Margaret Colicos, beloved wife and mother, respected researcher, deep thinker, hero of humanity. Her work changed our understanding of more than one race.”

  She paused, not sure if Bolam wanted to add anything. Apparently he didn’t. “This marker is just a symbol of our gratitude and respect for her work. Replicas of this plaque will be displayed on Theroc and on Earth. The worldforest itself holds all of her writings and will preserve them.” Arita took an image of the gravesite with its new marker to show her parents.

  Having done what she’d promised to do, Arita returned to the main camp settlement. It was late in the afternoon, and though she was anxious to get started, she felt tired from the trip.

  The research teams returned from the Klikiss ruins or from dig sites or meteorological stations, settling back into the camp for the end of the day. Arita learned that one crew of architectural specialists, led by Tarker and Orfino, was analyzing the ruined mounds and spires to see what they could adapt for buildings on human colonies. None of the research teams worked with any sense of urgency, Arita realized. University funding was low, their needs were modest, and they could stay in this camp for years. Their funders likely had minimal expectations.

  Some of the visitors were even prospectors hoping to strike it rich with a find of prisdiamonds, naturally occurring fire crystals, even a practical though unglamorous strike of useful metals. When the Klikiss had lived on this planet, they’d done little to exploit its natural resources. The insect race had been intent only on wiping out and devouring their rivals.

  While Arita settled in for a quiet evening in front of her tent, Pellieri made a large pot of delicious-smelling soup. Other researchers offered supplies from their own stockpiles, and he happily accepted the gifts to make a more complex stew. Arita had brought packaged rations with her, but Pellieri’s soup smelled wonderful.