Heaven's Reach

Dwer

AT FIRST, HE EXPECTED THE HUNT FOR RETY TO be easy.

How could a human hide in Kazzkark? Everywhere Dwer went, people turned and stared with a variety of sensory organs. Diverse limbs and tendrils pointed, while susurrant comments in a dozen Galactic dialects followed him down every lane. Apparently, Earthlings were infamous.

Even if no one in Kazzkark had any idea what kind of smelly biped Rety was, the girl would draw attention to herself, as surely as stars were fire. In all the time he’d known the young sooner, that trait had never failed.

Dwer’s instincts were more reticent. He preferred slinking quietly through this bizarre noisy place — spacious as a canyon, yet claustrophobic as a boo forest, with a slim roof to keep the precious air from blowing into space. The environment would be unnerving enough without throngs of aliens loudly arguing or gesticulating, then lapsing to hushed murmurs as he passed.

I always hated crowds. But according to Harry Harms, this is just a tiny outpost! I can’t imagine a real city.

Dwer tried not to stare, partly because it was impertinent, and to keep from looking like a total rube. Among the bedtime stories his mother used to read aloud, a standard plot told of some rustic innocent coming to a metropolis, only to be fleeced by urban predators.

Fortunately, I don’t have much to covet or steal, he thought, counting blessings.

At a busy intersection, Dwer paused to consider.

If I were Rety, where would I dash off to?

None of this would have happened if he’d been vigilant. While waiting for Harry at Navigation Institute HQ, Dwer had left Rety to visit the toilet. It took some time, as he studied the strange array of mechanisms designed to remove waste products from many species. Emerging — mussed and damp from several near accidents — he cursed to find Rety gone and the front door gaping to a busy street.

Harry’s gonna be mad, he thought, plunging outside, hoping to catch sight of her. Dwer briefly glimpsed a short bipedal form just turning a corner, and sped in pursuit, but soon lost the dim figure in a maze of side avenues.

He needed a plan. Carefully, Dwer ran through a list of Rety’s priorities.

Number one — get away from Jijo and make sure no one ever takes her back again.

To Dwer, that seemed pretty much a done deal. But she might worry that Harry Harms knew too much. Conceivably the chimp might gather enough information to figure out Jijo’s location, and even insist they return with him. Rety might not want to take the chance.

Number two — make a living. Become invaluable to somebody powerful, so she’ll never be hungry again.

That left Dwer at a loss. The girl had her computerized tutor unit, plus the data on Kazzkark that Harry provided. Could she have figured out a scheme while Dwer was in the toilet?

Number three — get rid of her scars. Rety had always been self-conscious about the weals that marred one side of her face, caused by cruel bullies who had tormented her back in the Gray Hills Tribe. Personally, Dwer did not much notice the marks. He had seen worse on Jijo. Besides, anyone who ever loved or hated Rety would do so because of her powerful presence and force of will.

Still, she would want to take care of that as soon as possible.

Was it possible, on Kazzkark? With no resident human population, would there be proficiency to perform repairs on Earthling flesh?

Why not? Computers can store the expert knowledge of countless skilled workers. And medicine would get top priority. You never know which species will visit an outpost, so you’d best he prepared for all of ’em.

Dwer knew he was reasoning from a slim base of information. Since infancy, he had heard stories about the radiant civilization his ancestors left behind. Now he felt numbed and dazzled by the reality.

Maybe I should’ve waited for Harry. I know Rety and he knows Kazzkark. We’d do better together than separately.

Preparing to head back, Dwer suddenly experienced a strange, disquieting sensation. It took moments for him to find a word to describe it.

I’m … lost.

It had never happened to him before! Not back home. Always there had been the sure draw of north, and a sort of internal map that unreeled each time he made a turn or took a step. But here on a drifting planetoid, his brain must lack some necessary cue. Dwer had no idea where he was!

He stood near a stony wall, trying to get bearings while streams of varied, bizarre life-forms swept past. Ignoring them, he fought to concentrate but was blocked by a rising sense of panic.

After E Space, I figured I could adjust to anything. I may be a sooner, but I’m not a savage. I grew up with other races around me. But this … all this …

The noise, bustle, smell, and grating presence of so many types of sapient minds — some of them brimming with hostility toward his kind — made him want to duck into the nearest hole and not come out again.

How long the funk would have lasted, Dwer had no idea. But it cut short abruptly when a large, fuzzy figure barged into his field of view, shorter and much rounder than a human, with whiskered cheeks and a pelt of bristly brown fur. A stout biped, vaguely mammalian, it displayed sharp teeth in a grimace that Dwer took as a deadly threat — until it boomed eager greetings in Anglic!

“Well, well. As I live and breath mints! A human? Well, well! Indeed a human, here in the booney tunes! I have not this pleasure had since past times … before crisis times, when peace was! Shake?”

The creature held forth a meaty paw, from which retractile claws kept popping in and out, unnervingly. Dwer blinked, remembering vaguely about an old Earthling tradition of touching and clasping palms that had largely been abandoned long ago, since most aliens disliked it. Nervously, he extended his left hand — the one he would miss a little less if the creature snapped it off. “Shaking” felt awkward, and they were both clearly glad when it was over.

“Forgive my ignorance,” Dwer said, attempting to mimic the formal, interspecies bow he had seen used a few times on Jijo. “But can you tell me who … or what …”

His voice trailed off as the rotund figure opposite him grew flushed. Sallow skin reddened underneath the streaky brown fur. Dwer feared he must have given offense — until the creature began huffing in a rhythmic manner, clearly trying to imitate human-style laughter.

“Is true? You recognize me not? A Synthian? Among the best of friends we have been to you humans! Very best! Well, well. Until this cursed crisis, that is. I admit. Friendship is tested, sorely, when death flows like starlight. I admit this. I, who am called Kiwei Ha’aoulin. This I admit. You will not hate me for it?”

Dwer nodded. A Synthian? Yes, he had heard of them … and vaguely recalled seeing pictures in an old folio, when Fallon taught him a little Galactoxenology in the Biblos archive. Indeed, the race had been known for good relations with Earth, back in the early days before starship Tabernacle fled to Jijo. Though a lot might have changed since then.

“It is my turn to apologize, Kiwei Ha’aoulin,” he said, mimicking the name as well as he could. “I kind of suffered a little … er, brain damage in deep space. An accident where all my possessions were lost.”

The Synthian’s eyes swept across Dwer’s ragged clothes before settling on the qheuen-made bow and quiver of arrows.

“All possessions? Then this lovely proto-aboriginal archery set … it is not thine to display, or possibly to sell?”

Dwer stared for several seconds. According to Harry Harms, no Galactic should even recognize the finely carved wooden implements for what they were. Yet this one knew the primitive weapon on sight, and clearly desired it! Covetous eagerness seemed to crackle from its bunched-up muscles.

A hobbyist, Dwer realized. An enthusiast. He had met the type, even back on Jijo. For some reason, his instincts as a tracker and hunter abruptly kicked in. Commerce, after all, followed many laws of the jungle. Panic fled as familiarity took its place.

“Well, well,” he said, slipping into a soft semblance of the other person’s speech. “Perhaps I exaggerated. I admit that I managed to hold on to a thing or two from the shipwreck. A few special things.”

“Treasures, no doubt,” the Synthian replied, while avid tremors coursed its hunched spine. “Well. I am one, among my kind, known as a fishy-naddo of things Terran-earthly. I would help you find a market for such things. And thus? From poor castaway to enabled starfarer you might become! Enabled enough to buy a ticket in comfort from this miserable un-place to a some-where-else-place, perhaps?”

Not waiting for an answer, the Synthian slipped an arm around Dwer’s.

“Well, well. Shall we talk more? Kiwei Ha’aoulin knows very nice meal-site nearby. Good food! Good talk about treasures and news from the stars! Come?”

Dwer’s right hand stroked his bow. On Jijo it was, indeed, valuable. Beneath his foolish demeanor, Kiwei Ha’aoulin must have a keen eye for quality. Who knew what an aficionado of primitive Earthling tools might pay?

I’d hate to part with it, hut this could help me learn more, and maybe find Rety.

Driven as much by hunger as curiosity, Dwer nodded.

“I accept your hospitality, Kiwei Ha’aoulin. Let’s go and talk of many things.”

Ignoring hostile stares and murmurs from all sides, he accompanied his new friend, hoping for the best.