“No, you don’t,” Aryl said, ready to defend herself. But all he did was hold it out to her. When she reluctantly took it from him, he pushed up one sleeve and offered his arm.
The object seemed harmless. There was no sharp edge to any of its flat sides, merely a play of rather lovely lights over one surface, the other—she turned it over—being featureless and polished. “Try,” Marcus said, standing quite still.
Aryl brushed hair from her eyes, then used both hands to hold the object. She approached the Human as the stick-stranger had tried to approach her, stopping short of touching him.
“Try,” he urged. “Safe, is.”
What was he? This close, she wasn’t sure anymore. Aryl stared into eyes that lied with their familiarity, her nostrils flaring at a faint, not unpleasant new scent. She could feel the warmth of his body across the small distance between them. Not that she was wearing much.
She watched with interest as he swallowed once, then again, color blooming on his cheeks. “Bioscanner,” Marcus said in an odd voice. “Try.”
Of course. The object. She looked down at the smooth underside of his forearm. It was soft and rounded, like the palm of his hand. The Human, she realized with an inner shock, had probably never climbed a rope or stalk. Did he rely on machines for everything? She put her arm next to his. Muscle and veins wove like cords from wrist to elbow; over that, her tanned skin was patterned in white scars. Cuts, the deeper attentions of biters, nothing much of note.
She wasn’t the only one comparing. “Strong are,” Marcus observed, his other hand reaching as if to touch her.
Aryl jerked her arm away. “I’m Yena Om’ray,” she said proudly. “We don’t fall.”
“Fall?” He frowned. “Means what?”
To distract him, she took the object—the “bioscanner”—and put it on his arm.
Two things happened.
The first was that the lights changed position and became a flock of moving symbols. She was almost fascinated enough to miss the second.
Almost.
The second was that she inadvertently touched the side of her smallest finger to his skin. And through that tiny touch, slowly, then more quickly, she could see.
His mind was real.
Though the Human was not Om’ray to her inner sense, with contact she could hear incomprehensible words she somehow recognized as his thoughts. Nothing was shielded. Should she wish, Aryl realized, she could explore every level of his mind. Were she Adept, she might even understand what she found. Still, she tried, using her sense to chase tantalizing images. Memories. Vast dark spaces. Depths. Confusing mosaics of light and shapes. Places. Other beings.
Emotions. Goodwill. Curiosity. Admiration. A growing discomfort—not pain yet, but its precursor. Her presence in his mind wasn’t sensed, but it was felt.
Aryl pulled her inner self back. At the same time, she lifted her hand from his arm and gave the Human a real smile. “Bioscanner,” she repeated carefully, pretending to examine the symbols before passing it to him. “What does it do?”
“Do?” Marcus repeated. He appeared to search for words, then nodded as if to himself. “Sick. Sick not. Food best. Food not. Bioscanner, all.”
A device to detect what food her body should have? If she was ill? Aryl looked at the small thing incredulously. How could it do that? She thrust out her arm, eager now to see it work.
Marcus applied it. All she felt was the coolness of metal, quickly warmed by her flesh. His fingertips brushed her skin, but she restrained her curiosity. He meant no harm toward her—she owed him the same.
The device blinked and produced symbols that looked, to Aryl’s disappointed judgment, to be exactly the same. But the Human made a pleased sound and tucked the device into a fold in his shirt. “Aryl good.”
She laughed. It sounded like something a young child would say, though this was no such simple being. “Thank you.” She made the gesture of gratitude. He seemed to know it was important, and copied the movements of her hands. “Good,” she said, then got straight to what mattered.
“What do you eat?”
“Good?”
The scrutiny of those dancing black eyes was hard to ignore, but Aryl had done her best. The Carasian, Janex, was apparently fascinated with her. Or her eating habits, Aryl thought.
“Good,” she agreed, though most of their food was bland by her standards. There was a dark, hot drink she liked, bold and bitter, as well as a tangy green froth within a bowl, though Janex had removed a bright red swirl from the top before handing it to Aryl. There was no dresel, nor did they appear to understand the word. If this food didn’t supply its equivalent to her body, she’d have to return home before too many days passed and she weakened.
Aryl wasn’t in a hurry. The marvels of this place multiplied by the moment. After the bioscanner had been a very small room, no larger than her outstretched arms, called a fresher. She’d stood inside and first been sprayed with warm, fragrant foam that had tingled over her skin and through her hair. Then, a wind, warm and soft, blew the foam away, leaving her clean and as refreshed as if she’d slept. The rest of the facilities were disappointingly normal—she supposed sinks and toilets had practical limitations—though she couldn’t tell where water or wastes went.
There had been clothes as well. She was now dressed like Marcus or the stick-stranger, though she’d doubted the pants at first. Once on, they’d proved softer and more comfortable than they looked. With luck, the garments would last until she was home. Yena weavers would be fascinated.
Now this, an eating place with a window like those in the Cloisters, fitted with something hard and clear. Beams of sunlight passed easily, patterning the otherwise plain white floor with shadows. Through it, Aryl could see the glittering expanse of the Lake of Fire. No mysterious smoke now. Only hard reflection, hiding what might lie beneath. It filled the view, as if there was no other landscape in the world.
She sat with her back to it at one of four round tables, on a comfortable-enough chair. The stick-stranger had its own, the seat designed for the challenge of its posterior, not hers. Food came on trays from a slot in an otherwise ordinary wall. She’d wanted to look though that, but the Carasian had been too quick to remove her tray and bring it to the table for her.
The Carasian’s own repast had consisted of a bowl of the dark drink, consumed tidily, if noisily, by pouring large amounts into a cavity in its claw, then lifting that to a space between its eyes. The ensuing slurp made her smile.
Aryl tucked her hair behind one ear—again. She’d been unable to explain the need for a hairnet and consoled herself that no one here knew about such necessities.
“Better?”
Janex was unrelenting in its efforts to improve. Aryl found it frustrating. The shell-stranger had an ample store of real words. Putting them together in a sane order—that was the problem. At least it learned quickly.
“Your food,” she said carefully, using the utensil they’d given her as a pointer, “is good. Thank you.”
“ ‘Your food is good.’ ”
That wasn’t right. Aryl frowned in thought. “I say that,” she clarified, indicating herself. “You say: Our food is good.”
Janex gave that booming laugh. “Our food is bad.”
Making perfect sense. Aryl grinned and lifted her cup gesturing to Janex’s empty bowl. “Not all of it. I like this.”
“Sombay. Our sombay is good, yes. Better is?”
“Is this better?” she corrected, though suspicious she was being teased. “Yes, that’s better. You’re good with real words.”
“Real.” The eyes settled, every one looking at her. The Carasian said, “Is this real?” and uttered a few of those incomprehensible sounds.