Mary Rosenblum - The Eye of God

“One of your… creators of art became a friend to one of our people.” Grik went on as if Etienne hadn’t spoken. “Its sincerity was apparently impressive. So that one offered it access to a world we have not opened to your species.”

“You haven’t opened many worlds to us.”

The Rethe did the pouring-gesture again. “The art-creator was lost there in a tragic accident.”

“There are several registered empaths working for Search and Rescue.” Etienne watched the Rethe narrowly. “Why me? We are back to that question.”

“According to your datafile, you are a very intelligent human.” Grik placed her hands palm up on her thighs, her eyes shifting very slightly toward the young Zynth. “Do I truly need to answer this question for you?”

Zynth sat with her head bowed, pale, her anguish an almost palpable mist. The reeds had inched away from her, leaving a semicircle of clear soil beyond her. Etienne knew suddenly who had invited the artist onto a forbidden world.

“You closely control the Gates—allow us onto only a few poor planets. Like this one. Only the culls for us humans, eh? And you won’t transport extraction technology for us—in the name of environmental concern.” Etienne turned back to Grik, teeth bared. “We accept that limitation because you awed us. And because we can’t operate the Gates without you.” She smiled. “If you go to a registered empath, the media will surely find out about this… art-creator. And interview him or her. The grass is always greener in someone else’s pasture, and now you’ve let one of us through the fence. We’re quite an envious bunch, and we don’t stay awed very long.” She grinned and reached for a cherry gel. “A species trait, I’m afraid. People will begin to clamor for admittance to these wonderful forbidden worlds and there will be friction. Since our treaty with you is up for renewal this year, friction could be… a problem. Thus, you come to an unregistered empath, hoping to keep the media out of it.”

The Rethe turned her hands palm down. “We will pay you well,” she said. “Ending a life—even accidentally—is no trivial matter to us.”

Etienne stole a glance at Zynth. She was looking at Etienne now, fear and desperate hope like a violin note humming on the hot, dusty air. The reeds quivered to its song, and Etienne sighed. “I will not take any money,” she said, and wondered how much she was going to regret this.

A synskin habitat had been anchored to a wide terrace cut into a cliff. Below, dark water lapped at the roots of worn ancient mountains. They were capped and streaked with a white deposit that looked more like guano than snow. But it wasn’t the severely beautiful landscape that held Etienne’s attention. It was the moon. Huge, bloated, haloed by a pink mist, it floated above the horizon. An irregular brown blotch in the center of the blue and white orb gave it the appearance of a giant, unwinking eye. Beautiful, she thought. Unforgiving. And she shivered, although her light thermal suit kept her warm enough. The habitat shivered too, straining against its anchors.

Behind her, invisible and undetectable to any human tech, lay a Rethe Gateway. Zynth had brought them through. A dozen steps could take Etienne back to summer heat and whispering coral-reeds. But only if Zynth escorted her. The bio-engineering of the Gates didn’t work for humans.

This was humanity’s humiliation. That the Rethe could walk across the galaxy unhindered and in moments. Human technology didn’t so much lag behind—it was as extinct as the dinosaurs. And it left humanity obedient to the Rethe—for the price of the Gateways that the Rethe opened for them. Once, she had been one of the negotiators. They had staffed the Interface Team with empaths, hoping for an edge, a clue as to how the Rethe could be met as equals. It hadn’t yet happened. With each renewed Treaty, humanity lost a little more ground, granted a few more concessions. Eventually, they’ll own us, Etienne thought cynically. For the price of a few mediocre planets.

Vilya had been fascinated by the Rethe. She had understood them far better than Etienne ever would.

A sudden gust of wind shoved Etienne so that she staggered. That invisible doorway behind her seemed less than real beneath the inhuman scrutiny of that planetary eye. I do not want to be here, she thought.

“The Eye of God.” Zynth’s voice was clear and high.

She would sing mezzo. Like Vilya. “I wish it would close.” Etienne tensed as Zynth laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Please don’t touch me.” She shook her off.

“Are you well?” Zynth’s dark eyes were full of concern.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Etienne let her breath out in a rush. “Why couldn’t we have come here at the beginning of the day?” She glowered at the girl, needing to be angry at her, because no emotion except anger was safe. “It’s too dark to search. Why spend the night here?”

“I… am required to be here.” Zynth’s eyes evaded hers. “Until the artist is found. All life is sacred, and I permitted it to be put at risk. This is a place of truth. Beneath the Eye of God, I must face my failure. Can you understand?’ She spread her fingers wide. “But I can open the Gateway for you. You may go back to your home and return in fifteen hours. It will be dawn then. I am thoughtless.” She raised her face to the bloated moon. “There is no need for you to be here.”

“I’ll stay.” Etienne turned her back on that unsettling orb, realizing that she had offered to stay because Zynth was afraid. “Who named that thing, anyway? I’d call it the Dead Eye, myself.” Etienne stomped over to their habitat, ignoring Zynth’s shocked silence. “Why don’t you tell me how this person got lost—and where?” She knelt and shoved her way into the sphinctered opening. The transparent smart-plastic squeezed her body gently as she crawled through, blocking out the wind, but not the judgmental stare of the Eye. It’s a moon, she told herself. A planetoid with weird coloring. But she couldn’t deny her relief as she touched the light strip and warm yellow fight subdued its glare. “We need to plan our search for the morning,” she said as Zynth crawled through the sphincter after her.

As the Rethe began to take off her thermal suit, Etienne pulled a sleeping bag over against the wall and wrapped it around her. Like armor. The sculpted curves of Zynth’s muscled arms and shoulders showed through her undershirt. It was warm in here. Thermal fibers were woven into the shell, and Etienne was sweating in her own suit. But she was damned if she’d strip, too.

“I will tell you,” Zynth said in a low voice. “It is my shame.” She flung herself onto her own bag with a grace so much like Vilya’s that Etienne’s throat closed.

“So I guessed,” she managed, felt immediately guilty as Zynth flinched.

“I met him at our embassy in New Amsterdam.” Propped on her elbows, she kept her eyes on the floor. “He had been hired to create several visual environments for the conference center there. The environments… moved me. We talked a lot. And one evening I told him about the Eye of Truth, and the song of this place. He… asked me to bring him here. The seeing mattered to his soul, so I did.” She clenched one fist slowly. “I returned to find this camp empty. Duran was gone. I do not know… “Shit!” Etienne slammed her fist down on the synskin floor.

Zynth’s eyes widened. “I… I am sorry,” she stammered, her cheeks flaming. “Grik said that you were… friends.”

This was Duran’s bloody camp! He had slept here, breathed the air in here. Etienne got abruptly to her feet, afraid she might catch his scent, some trace of his physical presence. I hope he fell over the damn cliff, she thought savagely. She lifted her head to face the bloated eye staring at her through the shuddering walls of the habitat. That’s the truth, she told it silently.