Page 32 of Sky Song
He thought on that. “What’s behind Anatra?”
“Other villages. And a nature preserve, meaning a real forest.” Serenity Park was once a part of that forest.
“If we fly, we can see all of it better.”
Cricket shook her head. “We can’t do that.”
“Those fly.” Lyle pointed at a couple of airborne riders that passed high above their heads with a soft whistle. “They look the same as ours. Can this one fly?”
“All riders can fly, but you have to be licensed to pilot them. I’m not, and so my access code won’t even reveal the panels with the right controls.”
“Why aren’t you licensed to fly?”
“I don’t have a reason to be. And it costs money. Actually, I don’t have a reason to be driving, but I got my license a long time ago, thinking I might need it one day.”
Lyle looked at her intently. “You don’t like flying?”
“It’s not that I don’t… I’ve never flown except for that one trip across the Universe that brought me to Meeus.”
He blinked his lazy blink at her. “And did you enjoy that one time?”
Cricket laughed. “I was very ill and anxious to be going away from the only home I’d ever known. In all honesty, it was a terrible experience.”
Lyle said nothing and focused again on the rider’s controls. “This rider can shoot, too,” he murmured.
It was news to Cricket. “Really? How do you know?”
“There are concealed ports on both sides.”
“I guess it makes sense. I never thought about it.”
“But you’re not surprised.”
“I happen to know that riders are multi-purpose vehicles. They transport people, but they can be used by the peacemakers to defend against all kinds of threats. Meeus' citizens choose to never be caught unawares, to never makethemselves vulnerable to an invasion. Anything can be turned into a weapon, Lyle. So we never have to scramble.”
He made a noise deep in his throat which Cricket took for an approval as he scanned the lights and buttons on the dashboard. This close, she saw his blackest slits of irises - three in each eye, with the bigger one in the center - dilating slightly as he examined the display. Then his hand reached the tightly fused panels that hid additional controls designed for flying modes, and he traced his fingers along the barely noticeable seam. His touch was light and caressing, full of familiarity and longing. He placed his hand on the warm panel and held it there, as if savoring the feel of hard plastic.
The rider was suddenly filled with disquiet, with pulsing energy that felt right and wrong at the same time. To break the feeling that was almost itchy from its intensity, Cricket focused on Lyle’s hand and realized what she was seeing.
“What happened to your hand?” He had six fingers. Or he should have had. Half of his, every other one, were missing, cleaved off at the root.
Lyle blew a frustrated breath and removed his hand from the dashboard. “Would you believe me if I said it was another bicycle accident?”
“Not a chance.”
“Okay, then. I cut them off.”
“How can you joke about something that’s obviously a serious trauma?”
“It wasn’t a serious trauma. And I’m not joking.”
She gaped at him. “Why?”
“There were too many of them at the time.”
And for a second, she had thought he was telling the truth.
Without any more questions, she carefully backed out and proceeded down the winding road that led across the valley and emerged on the other side of it, in the next village.
