A FRESH LINE THROUGH THE CHANGING WORLD

1563 4D

Exhausted after dozens of tries, his hands bound in the thorns and brambles of the rose, Andrew gasped, “Onnhasshakh, I will stay on my path.”

The alien smiled brilliance. “As you wish. The bridge awaits you.”

A tornado of meteor-light coalesced into Jeddin. He smiled at Andrew. “They’re asleep.”

“Who?” Andrew roused himself from the spell of Onnhasshakh‘s words.

“Nazrelo and the others. Just humans in innerspace, the way it always is. But one is stirring.”

A shudder made Andrew clench his teeth in an effort to hold still. “Am I dead?”

“Not at all. Let go of this room, let go of the flower, and you’ll see the ship in the plain world. Just a room inside a hull.”

Andrew tried it. The rose clung, thorns hooked in him, stem clutching; he pulled free, bleeding honey and citron from deep wounds; the ship bucked and he nearly fell over on his side. The room around him dimmed to shadowy walls and a door. Just inside the door, the dim forms of the two soldiers who had accompanied him and Jeddin now lay asleep on the floor, sprawled in awkward collapsed angles. Andrew dived into himself again, into the reeling uncertainty of space.

Onnhasshakh now held the rose in her glowing hand. As Andrew recovered his place in the circle, she passed it to him, saying, “Now. Make us a fresh line through the changing world.”

The rose grew, twined, its thorns again sealing it to him, until it spread huge blood-red petals to reveal a glowing patch of light. The light itself bloomed into the miniature head of a woman. Her olive-brown face carried etched lines of severity and power; the collar of her gray military coverall showed the tiny arrayed sigils of highest rank.

The woman stared at Andrew. Her eyes widened. In a commanding voice, she said from the heart of the rose, “Who are you? What are you doing on the alien vessel?”