“Thiss iss my favorite outfit,” he muttered to himself.

12

Anlyn piloted the Bern ship through the Great Rift, sliding from one galaxy to another. As she scanned the backdrop of stars ahead of her, checking out the various structures floating in the void beyond, Edison began his prepared spiel in flawless Bern. She couldn’t understand most of the individual words—her Bern in deplorable shape for a member of royalty—but she’d helped write the speech in Drenard, so she could somewhat keep up, translating in her head:

“Greetings, members of the great Bern race. We come unarmed and without malice. Please do not fire upon us. As ambassadors for the Drenard empire, we wish to communicate, nothing more. Please do not fire. We wish to speak in peace with your cultural representatives.”

Edison lowered the mic and Anlyn checked the SADAR screen, or whatever the Bern called their version of it. Seeing nothing, she peered forward, squinting at the large structures floating silently in the distance.

“Another iteration?” Edison asked.

Anlyn shook her head. “I don’t think anyone will hear you.” She spread her hands toward the view through the canopy. “Where are the ships? All the activity?”

“The prophecy contained much accuracy,” Edison said, chortling.

Anlyn didn’t laugh. She settled back into her seat and grabbed the flight controls, spinning the ship in place. “We should tell Bishar. The Circle will want to—”

She fell silent. Looking back, a solid wall of gold stood in the open slit of space. The last hole in the barrier could be seen squeezing shut, one of the armored canisters brought forward and locked into place.

Anlyn reached for the radio. “Bishar, this is Anlyn, respond.” She waited a moment for a reply. “Hello? Anyone, please answer.”

Nothing.

Her hand dropped to her lap in frustration.

Edison took the radio from her grasp and returned it to the dash. “Reveal your ruminations,” he said.

“You want to know what I think? I’m starting to wonder what we’re doing here. Where are the Bern? I don’t—we aren’t supposed to be doing this by ourselves.” Anlyn looked down at her lap. “Those two boys playing with your lance . . . what were their names—?”

“Who? You speak with adequate volume,” Edison said, “but it appears self-directed.”

“This was all a mistake. Everything. The speech, the prophecy, all those people . . .” Anlyn glanced over at Edison, then looked away. “I’m sorry, I think I really messed up this time—”

Edison reached over and squeezed her arm; he growled in her native tongue: “Love, are we more lost than when we met?”

Anlyn thought about that.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “But back then, we had at least known what galaxy we were in.”

“Ceti,” said Edison, switching back to English.

“What?” Anlyn lifted her head.

“We currently occupy the galaxy designated Ceti by the Terran federation.” He gestured to the screen ahead of him, then clacked a few buttons with his claws and the image zoomed in. “Observe. Our position is precisely determined.” He flashed his teeth.

“Like I know where the Ceti galaxy is,” Anlyn said, wiping at her face. She couldn’t tell if her love was being sweet to change the subject, or just unaware. Either way, she tried to pull herself together.

“It is situated approximately two point eight five million light years from the Local Cluster,” Edison said.

Anlyn glanced at his screen, then sat up straight and looked at her own. “How do I pull that up over here?”

Edison pointed to a button on his display. Anlyn pressed hers and tried to memorize the swirling shape of the word and the position of the key. The display of ranged targets disappeared from her screen, replaced with a standard looking chart. The names were gibberish, but she took the dotted trails for supply routes between good hyperspace jumps.

“How are you telling which galaxy we’re in? Mine just shows nearby systems.”

Edison clacked on his keys, and her screen duplicated his view. Their ship stood in the center, a blip nearly the size of what seemed to be an elliptical galaxy. Edison marked a target off to one edge, a fuzzy spiral in a cluster of several other blurry patches.

“The marker indicates home,” he said.

“You’re sure?”

He turned to her with a hurt look, then bared his teeth. “Positive.” His claws tapped on the keys, and more targets lit up, his deep voice calling out names as they flashed. “The Milky Way. Andromeda. Triangulum. The more diminutive objects in periphery represent the dwarf galaxies within the cluster. The overall pattern is immediately recognizable. The only difference is the angle of reference, which is inclined forty two degrees from normal, and askew eighteen degrees clockwise.”

Edison glanced over at her and seemed to catch the confused expres-sion on her face. He looked back to the map and held his hands out like he was clutching an invisible sphere. He swiveled both hands together and said in Drenard: “If you just rotate the map in your mind—”

“If you rotate it in your mind,” Anlyn said. “Some of us are normal.”

Edison’s teeth winked out in a sideways smile.

“Okay,” Anlyn said, wiggling to sit up straight, “So, the one we’re in, it’s called ‘Ceti?’” Anlyn tried to memorize the squiggle below their ship indicator; her brain didn’t feel quite up for the challenge. It was weird enough hearing Edison refer to galaxies with their Earth-names while speaking in Drenard. The last thing she needed was a third language thrown into the mix.

“That’s correct. And this one is labeled ‘Bern.’” He typed something, and a galaxy became highlighted in red.

“Oh, wait. I recognize that one. The shape anyway. Okay, I think I have my bearings. I’m just used to everything being centered on Drenard and right-side up.” Anlyn traced the black space around their ship’s indicator. “I wonder if the lack of lines between galaxies means we’re stuck in this one?” She shook her head. “No, of course not. There won’t be any resistance out here, no blockades and no keeps. It’s all Bern space, so there should be rifts with lots of traffic.”

“I’m confused,” Edison said. “The only way home should be through there.” He pointed at the shiny wall of plated armor ahead of them.

“It is.” Anlyn gripped the flight controls and spun the ship around to face the silent structures in the distance. “But we aren’t going home.”

She began accelerating out toward the large stations.

“We’re going to find the Bern and make first contact,” she said. “All over again. Prophecy or no prophecy, we’re here and we’re together, which makes this galaxy as good as any other.”

Edison reached over and rubbed her arm. “Agreed,” he said. “Besides, the most impossible thing we’ll ever do in all our lives has already been accomplished.”

“Which is?” Anlyn asked.

“Locating each other, of course.”

13

“Tickets! Get your free tickets!”

A man standing in front of the old opera house yelled the line over and over as he waved a fan of narrow stubs in the air.

“Ssee?” Walter hissed, turning to Molly.

Molly pulled him to a halt. “Did you know they were free when you stole them?”

Walter looked away.

“Thought so,” she said, releasing him with a slight shove.

She approached the gentleman, noticing as she did so that most people were doing just the opposite: they were scurrying into the street to avoid him. She wondered if the repulsive effect came from his comical attire: the man had on red pants, a velvety red jacket, and a white shirt with ruffles so long and stiff, they looked like a dozen pale hands reaching up to strangle him.

“Why free?” she asked him. She held up her own ticket as he tried to shove a few in her hand.

“Oh! Very good. Coming to see tonight’s show? Excellent. It’s free because—” He turned to a passing group. “Free tickets!” he yelled, frowning as they declined. “It’s always free on Tuesday nights. Tough day of the week— Free tickets!” More people scurried to the other side of the street. “Tough day of the week to get a crowd,” he finished. “We make it up in fruit and alcohol sales. Free tickets! And of course, we haven’t had this performer in several months. She’s been making quite a circuit around Lok, refining her act. Free tickets! We need to get people hooked again, am I right?”

He smiled and nodded as if answering his own question. Or perhaps to let Molly know he was quite busy enough without having to talk to her. She turned and studied the façade of the old opera house, which loomed up beside her.

It didn’t seem like much, not at first. Colorful dabs of paint clung to ornate carvings in desperate little chips. Rained-on dust dripped down massive columns in streaks, the tracks of brown smears blending with the dirt splattered upward from the sidewalk. The flaking and dripping made the entire building look like a half-burned candle of mud.

Through the grime and neglect, however, Molly saw something: an old grace, like a woman whose beauty had become shrouded in time. The building had tasteful architecture; it possessed a forgotten style that used to require an investment, back when artisans and laborers worked side-by-side, carving and painting masterpieces atop inspired engineering. But it was something else that made Molly’s breath catch in her chest. Something familiar. She actually remembered the place. Her father had brought her there when she was young—to see a magic act, she thought. A man had made loads of things disappear right off a stage before bringing them back again.

The old memory flooded her brain, striking for its clarity: a portly gentleman, bearded, wearing overalls instead of a magician’s suit. Fidgety and nervous, his head had been sheening with perspiration, his voice cracking with discomfort, and yet he had been wildly popular with the crowd. She could hear them in her recollection of that day: roaring all around her as a prairie buggy vanished from stage, then going wild again as it returned with members of the audience sitting inside—the very people who had just disappeared from traps and what-not.

Molly closed her eyes and attempted to corral more details of that night. She placed herself inside the theater of her imagination and tried looking to the side to see her father. She felt like he was right there, turning to her and smiling—

She lost it. It was too dark, that place they’d been in. Or maybe it was her childhood that remained too dimly lit. Still, it felt as though she’d won a kind of lottery, had reclaimed some portion of her fuzzy past.

The Wadi put its cheek next to hers and flicked its tongue out as if it were trying to taste the memory as well. She opened her eyes and coaxed the creature down by her belly where she could cover it with her arm. Walter stood by her side, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. Molly ignored him and strolled up to the entrance of the soiled building.

“Tickets?” a young boy by the door asked.

Molly fumbled for hers, exposing the Wadi, but the kid didn’t seem to notice or care. “Why do you need them if it’s free?” she asked, trying to make conversation.

The boy looked at her curiously, then glanced out at the gentleman in the street. “Good question,” he said.

Walter pushed on her back, shoving her inside before brandishing his collection of tickets to the boy.

“You only need one,” she heard the lad say.

Molly smiled and stepped deeper into the building, taking in the sight of the lobby, which was slathered in the same sort of red velvet worn by the ticket hawker.

“Thiss is nicse,” Walter hissed.

Molly looked at the stains in the carpet, the torn posters on the walls, the crumbling ceiling tiles. Both the concession stand and ticket office were dark and empty. The former had a glass counter with several of the panes broken, fragments hanging like transparent teeth. The latter looked like it had been broken into, the door askew and clinging to a single hinge. In the center of the lobby stood four grand columns, one of which had a wide crack running its length with rough-hewn lumber nailed across it, making it look like an arm in a splint.

Molly frowned and rubbed her own arm.

“Thiss iss like a date,” Walter said.

Molly turned and saw him looking up at her, his hand reaching out to grab hers.

She pulled it away and used it to squeeze his shoulder. “This is not a date, Walter. We’re here to meet someone.” She glanced at the various doors leading to the seats. “Let’s go sit up close so we can get her attention after the show.” She headed for the stairs leading down, but Walter ran toward the door marked “Balcony.”

“I wanna ssit up top!” he called over his shoulder.

Molly sighed and headed up after him. She didn’t think it would be difficult to race down after the show and introduce herself to Cat, so she ascending the wide stairway darkened by burnt-out bulbs. Feeling her way up using the railing, Molly groped with her feet for that last, non-existent “ghost step” that always made her feel like a lepton.

Just as she started worrying about it, someone jumped at her, fingers digging into her ribs and nearly knocking her back down the steps.

“BOO!” Walter yelled.

Molly jumped so hard, she nearly pulled a muscle. She swung an open hand at him, but he was already rolling around on the red carpet, panting and wheezing in a full-on Palan giggle fit. Molly pictured herself kicking him in the shins, but somehow restrained herself. Then, the sight of something incredibly familiar loomed in her peripheral, distracting her.