Adam-Troy Castro - Emissaries from the Dead

It had been a long, long time, maybe years, since I’d worried about hurting anybody’s feelings. I hadn’t imagined myself capable of wounding the Porrinyards, who between them seemed mounted on foundations stronger than my own had ever been. But damned if the two of them hadn’t turned brittle all of a sudden. And damned if they weren’t good about inflicting guilt. I needed several seconds to frame a satisfactory answer. “The first time I found my life in your hands, nobody asked my opinion first. The second and third time, I chose to have you along. That much wasn’t testing you, or using you. It was relying on you.”

They indicated the Uppergrowth with a roll of their eyes. “But it was always about this.”

“It’s been about more than just that for some time now.”

They moved to opposite sides of the skimmer, their positions so identical down to the slight twist of their respective right legs that they might have been performing choreographed parodies of one another. When they addressed the night, I couldn’t trace any individual sound to either individual set of lips. “When the individuals first Oscin and Skye announced their intention to link, their respective friends and family were horrified. They said, aren’t you afraid of what you’d be giving up? The individuals Oscin and Skye said, no, we’re not giving anything up. The families both asked the same question. How could we be sure .”

My chest burned. “What did you tell them?”

They chuckled in harmony. “Nothing accurate, Andrea. The individuals Oscin and Skye weren’t sure about anything. They hadn’t lived it, you see. It was just an intellectual abstraction for them. They didn’t know how many more cues I would receive. They didn’t know my shared self would be sure about almost everything.”

They turned from the night and sat opposite me, their eyes shining.

They said, “This is what you’ve brought back into my life, Andrea: that refreshing sense of uncertainty.”

The preliminaries, introducing me to the Brachiators as a New Ghost who wished to taste Life, were fast and easy.

Securing me was a nightmare. My limbs rebelled at the very idea of trusting my life to a few roots and vines and safety cables, and more than once froze rather than submit. More than once the Porrinyards assured me that there was no shame in giving up on the very idea. I considered listening to them when they insisted on making me promise to signal at the first sign of an emergency.

But I said nothing, and soon found myself clinging to the Uppergrowth with all four limbs. The roots and vines were slack enough to permit some mobility. I had inserted my arms and legs through the places loose enough to accommodate them, hooked my ankles around a low-hanging loop, and found branches thick enough to provide handholds. Although the Porrinyards advised me that most of Gibb’s indentures preferred to do this facing the Uppergrowth, because that was the orientation of the Brachiators themselves, I insisted on being positioned with my back to the world’s ceiling and my face to the clouds.

I did not feel any safer when the Porrinyards, standing together on the cargo bed, strung a support cable across my waist or even when they looped another, thicker band around my chest. Anchored deep within the multiple layers of vines, they supported the bulk of my weight, freeing my arms in case I needed them, and preventing my limbs from seizing in reaction to what would have been agonizing strain. My mind appreciated the further safeguards against falling, but my gut considered them illusory protections at best.

The storm clouds below me were so very, very hungry.

I was still struggling to get my breath under control when the Porrinyards said, “Andrea? There are a couple of other things you need to know.”

Among them was just how stupid I was to invite this insane situation. “Go ahead.”

The Porrinyards each rested a protective hand on one of my shoulders. “Most people are a little afraid of heights. Mild acrophobia is healthy. But extreme, uncontrollable acrophobia is a different beast entirely. Many extreme acrophobes are frightened of heights, not because they see those heights as dangerous, but because they don’t trust themselves that close to an opportunity to jump. They see themselves surrendering to impulse. It’s not the fear of heights, in other words, but the fear of impulse that paralyzes them.”

I considered how easy it would be to just loosen the protective cables and plunge, and found the thought, horrific as it was, much too attractive. “Now you tell me.”

“If I did not consider you currently in control of yourself, I would not be leaving you here.”

I bit rising hysteria. “I hope you guessed right.”

“Me too. You’re very beautiful.”

My calm failed, overwhelmed by the distance between me and the storm clouds far below. “S-so are you.”

They displayed a pair of dazzling white smiles. “I look forward to overcoming your resistance.”

Dammit, this wasn’t fair. “Th-that might be difficult. I’m not the kind to get talked into anything.”

“I have advantages,” they said. “I outnumber you.”

Whereupon they fell into crouches, steadied themselves within the skimmer’s specific gravity, and with a wave, sped off, taking both the light and my last chance to back down.

It was stupid to feel fear. Fear was nothing but the body’s involuntary response to perceived threats. Fear increased heartbeat, respiration, and perspiration; fear clouded the mind and paralyzed the limbs, and I’m going to die wasn’t subject to logical arguments about its counterproductivity.

Right now the single most persuasive image in my mind involved a sudden rip in the Uppergrowth. Let’s say, a few hairline tears at a spot already weakened by Brachiator claws, then strained to the breaking point by my own involuntary movements, spreading farther as the cell walls ruptured and the increased straub pulled the wounds still wider I’m going to die becoming a lightning-shaped zigzag Oh, Juje and an entire section of vines ripping loose all at once, spilling me into the same abyss that had claimed Santiago Shut up and just how far could I fall, really, before I felt the press of wind against my face and knew there was no hope? A meter? Two? Three?

I closed my eyes.

I’m going to die .

But that meant nothing, too, because we were all going to die, and every breath of air I managed to wrest from the universe was one more the nightmares of my childhood had failed to deny me. When I breathed it was an act of defiance. When I breathed it was a victory. When I breathed it was

Oh, dammit.

My last meal came up, spilling from my lips in a great volcanic comet.

It was one of the reasons I’d insisted on being secured face-down. People who vomit while secured in a face-up position have a nasty habit of choking to death. At least this way, if death came, it wouldn’t be messy and stupid.

Or at least not messy.

I wondered how far the vomitus had fallen. A few hundred meters? More? Was it still one coherent mass or had the wind separated it into—

Enough of that. Not helpful. Concentrate already. Banish the fear.

I thought of an imprisoned little girl, fighting off the effects of the inaudible sublims her keepers played to keep her docile, wanting to smash her fists against the walls but overcoming the rage and the fear and vowing to survive on her own terms.

There was no visible difference between that darkness and the darkness I faced now. I knew what the darkness hid.

But then, I’ve known since Bocai.