Val Vega, page 17
“The unam and I can keep Pash-Ti occupied, for a time at least.”
It’s all so overwhelming. Even once I get to Charism’s pod, I’ll have to fly it myself and find my way to the Outlands. But I have to find them. It’s the only way. Charism’s whiskers curl up in a smile. “You’re much like your familial, Valiant One. Open-hearted yet determined.”
Thank you, I think. Thank you more than my thoughts can even say.
Charism gives me a friendly scratch on the arm, and I return the gesture. “Go, quickly,” he says. “May Synchronus guide your path.”
Chapter 15
The brown moon is rising higher in the dim night sky. Our pod flies over the ocean below, which stretches from horizon to horizon.
It was nerve-wracking getting to the hangar. I kept taking long detours around the path to avoid getting within even 50 feet of any Hoshan. Then, once I got there and found a confused Timoteo, I had to figure out how to operate the pod—which turned out to have a slightly different interface from the one I’d seen Pash-Ti operate. I finally managed to get it working with some help from Checkers. We turned off our suits’ location trackers before we left … Hopefully, Charism has convinced Pash-Ti we’re off meditating or something.
Timoteo is sitting beside me in the two-person pod. He still thinks we can’t trust Ferus but has limited his protests to passive-aggressive snipping. He squints at the map to the Outlands scrawled across two pages of Umberto’s notebook.
“Are you sure you’re reading that thing right?” I say.
Timoteo squints at the notebook. “Well, sis, Umberto scribbled like a doctor writing prescriptions, and we’re flying over miles of alien ocean with no landmarks, and my sense of direction has been known to fail me on the 10-minute walk from my dorm to class, so, um, no.”
I turn a dial to increase our speed. Once I got the pod activated, the interface has turned out to be pretty intuitive.
The brown moon rises higher, followed closely by the smaller, silver moon, which Hoshans call the daughter of the larger moon. After over an hour, I wonder if this was a mistake. I just hope we find Ferus and that his sample will finally give us some answers.
The big moon is directly over us when Timoteo says, “Hey, what’s that?” He points toward several small shadows flying across the sky. From a distance they look cigar-shaped, and for a second I think they’re pods. I make a slight right toward the shadows. As we get closer, I see they’re only about the size of eagles—way too small to be pods. A blurry set of wings carries the long, scaly creatures through the air, like living helicopters.
“I can’t believe I’m seeing actual alien animals!” Timoteo says, reading on the inside of his glasses. “They’re similar to Earth’s birds in some ways, but their method of flying is totally different—more like a bumblebee or dragonfly, or—”
“Flying like that must take a lot of energy,” I say. “They must need some place to stop and rest, which means we can’t be too far from land. From the Jutting Archipelago.”
I slow down to make sure we don’t miss anything. I feel a glimmer of hope that we might be close. I just hope my instincts are right that we really can trust Ferus, like Umberto did.
Then I see something on the far horizon. Many somethings. At first I think it might be a long convoy of oddly-shaped barges. As we get closer, I see that each object is bowl-shaped, held high above the water’s surface by a single column beneath its center. The bowls are all tilted in the same direction, like a string of enormous satellite dishes in the middle of the ocean.
It takes a while for us to close in on them.
“Are these really naturally occurring?” I say, as we finally get close to one.
“They really are,” Timoteo says, reading from his glasses. “Each bowl, or ‘outland’ of the Jutting Archipelago is actually a complex of several organisms with symbiotic relationships. The upper organisms are photosynthetic, but the lower organisms draw energy from a long trench of volcanic vents deep beneath the sea, and their waste is cycled through—”
“I’m going to get closer and fly over one,” I say, and angle the pod down toward the nearest of the bowls. Umberto’s map didn’t show an exact location for the Outlanders’ base, just directions to this long chain of outlands dozens of miles long. “Keep an eye out for any signs of the Outlanders. Like, I don’t know, buildings or something.” Close up, the bowl’s surface is brown and gnarled, like hundreds of tree roots woven together in a thick, rough tapestry. Purple sheaths fill the gaps between the gnarl of roots, like canvas stretched across a frame.
I skim the pod over the vast bowl, the vegetation getting thicker. A flock of the helicopter-like birds fly by, and a group of creatures swing across the upper level of the branches below—like Hoshans, but smaller and with longer limbs.
“This doesn’t exactly look like a secret Outlander base,” Timoteo says.
“I’m going to fly us over the whole area. Turn all your thoughts to the fact that we’re looking for Ferus and that Umberto was our uncle, and maybe they’ll sense our thoughts.”
“This is your plan?” Timoteo says. “Hope they catch us on their telepathic radar?”
“Let me know if you come up with something better,” I say.
We fly over more than twenty outlands in a chain that goes on as far as we can see—all nothing but dense forest. But these Outlanders don’t want to be easily found, so it’s no surprise we can’t see them from the air. Our best hope is for them to find us.
Hopelessness winds its way into my thoughts, even as I try to focus my mind on Ferus. Timoteo glances over at me, raising his eyebrows in a typical Timoteo I-told-you-so look.
But then Checkers’ voice cuts through the quiet desperation of my thoughts, announcing an incoming transmission: “It’s a welcome relief to see the currents of your mind, Valiant One. I never doubted you would find me.” It’s the same as the voice from the hologram.
“Ferus!” I shout. My plan actually worked.
Ferus asks us to turn control of the pod over to them, and as soon as I do, the windows darken. Timoteo taps on the darkened glass. “I really hope you’re right about this, Val …”
It is unnerving, not being able to see where we’re going. The pod makes a gentle landing. The hatch opens, and Timoteo and I climb out into a hangar with a bunch of other pods. I’m surprised to see pods here. I’d pictured the Outlanders as more … rustic.
From behind me, there’s a series of clicks. I turn and see a slim Hoshan male with shortly trimmed orange fur, wearing a shiny yellow amulet around his neck. It must be Ferus. He scurries toward me on all six legs. “It’s an honor to meet you in person, Valiant One.” He kicks up onto his hind legs, and surprises me by stretching up to paw my face instead of just scratching my forearm. “The scratch-greeting may be shared with any stranger,” he explains, “but Umberto was family to you and me alike, and so we are family to one another.”
I reciprocate the gesture, crouching over to touch my palm to Ferus’s face. My hands are trembling again—not with fear this time, but with gratitude. I’ve met dozens of sentients on Hosh, but this is the most warmth anyone has shown me. And it’s coming from someone that Umberto called friend.
“A true friend,” Ferus says. “I still mourn his loss, and I see in your mind that you do as well.
Ferus turns to Timoteo. “I am indeed Ferus, and you are Timoteo.” Ferus reaches up to paw his face, but Timoteo is too tall—and stays standing upright, out of Ferus’s reach. “Ah. You’re desperate for help to solve the mystery of Umberto’s murder. You’ve read of my history with the Hosh-Unam Front, and so a dark wariness tinges your hope that you might trust me as Umberto did. Your thoughts are two opposing waves crashing against each other.”
Timoteo looks down at the ground. “That pretty much covers it.”
“It’s true then?” I ask. “You were in the Hosh-Unam Front?”
“Thankfully, my career in terrorism was short-lived,” Ferus says. “And largely unsuccessful.”
“So what did you find?” Timoteo says. “What’s hidden beneath Tumasra?”
“I found the sample,” Ferus replies. “And will share all I can in due time.”
“We don’t have time for this cryptic stuff,” Timoteo says. “We need to know what your deal is, and we need your help figuring out what Umberto knew.”
“It’s not my intent to be cryptic,” Ferus says. “I’m as desperate as you to save the peace. But there is much debate among the Outlanders as to what course to chart next—and whether we can trust you as we chart it.”
“So you have to test us before you’ll help us,” Timoteo says.
“I would not say ‘test,’” Ferus says. “I trust you just as I did the Bright Warrior. But there are others among us who would know you better first.”
“That makes sense,” I say, before Timoteo has the chance to say something else. His impatience is no help, not when our only hope is to win the Outlanders’ trust.
“Come,” Ferus says, dropping to all six legs. “You must meet the others.”
We follow Ferus through a corridor, its walls and floor made of a slick polymer. Soon the slick floor gives way to a ground of gnarled roots, and the walls give way to tall trees and shoots of luscious purple forest. Ferus navigates the gnarled ground with ease, but Timoteo stumbles in the dim light.
Soon we come to a clearing in the woods. A group of Hoshans is gathered around a table that just reaches the height of their middle limbs when they stand on their hind legs. Some are stirring bowls, and others are chopping egg-shaped red fruits. Beyond the table, a Hoshan is tending a stove that’s split into four shelves, each with a pot or pan mounted on it. He stands on his hind legs, stretching to his full height to reach the pot on the top shelf, then drops to five legs to stir the pot on the lowest shelf. It smells like stew and onions and something bitter, like vinegar. A sense of ease comes over me as I take it all in. There’s nothing alien about this: a group of friends and family cooking together.
The Hoshans look up as we approach. The chopping suddenly stops, and even the Hoshan tending four flames abandons his steaming pots. They all stare wide-eyed at Timoteo and me.
“It’s rare we host guests here,” Ferus says. “And even rarer that we host aliens.”
The Hoshans leap away from the table and scurry toward us. In moments, they’re circling Timoteo and me, reaching up to paw at us, examine our clothing, stare at our smooth furless hands. One of them scrambles up Timoteo’s clothes to touch his face. “Whoa,” Timoteo says, “don’t mess up my hair.”
The two of us stand quietly, letting the Hoshans satiate their curiosity about us. It’s awkward at first, but then feels more natural, like the way little kids get to know each other. I hope it builds some trust with them.
One Hoshan hasn’t joined the circle and is still sitting at the table, looking at us with a frown. She’s short and stocky, sitting on the bench with quiet confidence—almost regal. I can tell she’s important. I extricate myself from the circle and sit next to her.
Hi. My name is Valeria Vega. I’m honored to meet you, and I appreciate you hosting us.
Her eyes squint beneath her unkempt fur, then she lets out a harrumph. Ferus paces over to us on six legs. “This is Kettle,” Ferus says. “And she’s pleased to meet you too. She was born here in the Outlands, far from any mind-deaf. She grew up communicating only with telepathy, unaccustomed to the languages taught us by the Etoscans and Levinti.”
Kettle turns her head toward me, but not her body. She speaks in slow clicks. “Foolishness. You allow them play with you like giant dolls. But your existence not dolls. Your existence aliens. Aliens always bring problems, violence.” A note from Checkers flashes across my arm-screen: Kettle speaks North Hoshan with nontraditional grammar. I’m attempting to interpret the unusual flow of her speech as best as possible into English.
“Umberto was an alien too,” Ferus says. “In time, he earned our trust—even yours.”
“What result exists?” Kettle says. Timoteo joins us, and she looks at the two of us. “Now Bright Warrior dead. Hosh in greatest danger in generations.”
“You must forgive Kettle’s bluntness,” Ferus says. “Speaking out loud is taxing for her.”
Kettle harrumphs and says, “But Ferus love talk by any manner or language.”
Ferus responds by nuzzling Kettle’s neck with his nose. Hoshans are so affectionate that I’m not sure if it’s a friendly gesture or something more romantic. They’d make an unlikely pair, Kettle so gruff and Ferus so smooth.
“Oh, yes,” Ferus says, unhooking his face from Kettle’s neck. “Kettle and I have been primary partners for many years now.”
Timoteo and I trade a look, our eyebrows raised in unison.
Ferus snorts. “Yes, she is irritable, but the depth of her mind is as full of wonders as the vibrant seascape that stretches beneath the Outlands.”
Kettle grunts. “Told you he liked to talk.”
Ferus touches his paw to Kettle’s face. “The treaty talks will determine Hosh’s fate, and these two are among our few true allies. You see in their minds they mean us no harm.”
“Virus means no harm,” Kettle says. “Still virus makes you sick.”
“We’re not like the others,” I say. “We want peace, the same as you.”
“Look,” Timoteo says, “if you give us the sample and tell us what you know, maybe we can figure out a way out of this mess.”
Kettle sits unmoving on the bench, like a statue in a park.
“Perhaps they could join us for the midnight meal,” Ferus suggests. “That will give us all a chance to get to know each other better.”
Kettle grunts. I’m not sure if it’s assent or refusal.
“You want to chat over lunch?” Timoteo says. “We need to figure out who killed our uncle, and who’s trying to sabotage these talks!”
Ferus reaches up to gently touch Timoteo’s arm. “We’re fortunate Kettle is open to sharing a meal. And I sense your hunger. Even in crisis, you must eat at some point.”
The dining area is in a clearing, covered with wood planks, like a big deck. It’s dimly lit by lamps hanging from the branches and by the light of Hosh’s large copper moon. Across the deck, twenty tables are spread out, each low enough for Hoshans to eat comfortably while sitting on their four hind legs.
Ferus guides Timoteo and me to where Kettle and a group of others are sitting. We sit down cross-legged at the too-low-for-Terrans table. Smoke wafts from the Hoshan stew, its scent like burning grass. The stew isn’t digestible for humans, so they bring us a simple bowl of fruits, which Checkers confirms is edible for us. I expect the fruits to taste like strawberries, maybe because they’re red, but they taste more like avocados drenched in lemon juice. Who knows when we’ll have the chance to eat again, so I eat as much as I can, and supplement mine and Timoteo’s with some trail mix from my bag.
I was hoping to ask Ferus about the sample and if he can confirm any of our theories, but Timoteo and I are the ones answering questions. What’s it like on other planets? What’s it like being mind-deaf? Do you always worry about people lying to you? How do the mind-deaf avoid bumping into each other?
“Unfortunately, some of us bump into each other and all kinds of objects all the time,” Timoteo answers, and the entire table titters with Hoshan laughter, probably sensing in Timoteo’s mind his long history of clumsiness.
In the middle of the meal, one Hoshan stops eating and stares at Timoteo and me. The Hoshan’s tail is like a female’s—not naturally fluffy—but adorned with violet furry curls, almost like a wig for a tail. It makes me wonder if they’re the Hoshan equivalent of trans or nonbinary.
The violet-tailed Hoshan lets out a titter and signs, “Yes, many Hoshans like me let our minds and bodies flow through waters both male and female. Especially here in the Outlands, where we are free to explore the deepest oceans of our minds.
“You’re both so much like your familial, and yet so different,” they go on signing. It’s interesting that some of them are speaking the sign language of the South, and others the vocal language of the North. I guess they come to the Outlands from all over the planet. “It’s an odd feeling we Hoshans experience sometimes. I’ve seen you both so often in Umberto’s thoughts. I feel as if I’ve met you before, though we are meeting mind-to-mind for the first time. Yet you are not quite as I saw you in his mind, and so it’s … incongruous. We call this vasek antrellus.”
Ferus nods as he lifts a ladle-like spoon to his mouth. “Yes, I’ve been experiencing vasek antrellus as well.”
“How are we different from how Umberto pictured us?” Timoteo asks.
Ferus snorts. “For one thing, you’re surprisingly large, but that’s to be expected, since Umberto often pictured you as children. And I suppose any Terran would seem large to us!”
“Vasek antrellus,” I say, remembering my conversation with Charism. “Does that have do with vasek antom?”
“Ah,” Ferus says. “So Charism has told you of vasek antom. The root is the same—vasek, which means an encounter of the minds.”
I try to remember how Charism explained it—an intense disagreement, but which brings you closer. I didn’t quite understand it.
“Indeed, you do not understand,” Ferus says. “It’s much more than a disagreement. Vasek antom can only take place when you dive deep into the difference between your thoughts and those of another. It’s only then that you can truly know one another’s minds.”
“Ferus expert,” Kettle says. “He and I have vasek antom every day.”
“Indeed, my love,” Ferus says, nuzzling Kettle’s neck. “Every day brings us into ever deeper union.” I’m not sure if they’re serious or joking or some ironic combination.
There’s a moment of silence, and then the violet-tailed Hoshan makes a slow series of signs. “You’ve seen the brutality of the Hosh-Unam Front,” they say. “They robbed you of air itself for a few moments. Your mind still rings with the horror of it.”
