Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy) (30 page)

CHAPTER 56

E
ach of them had a role to play. Steven monitored the progress of the recently arrived ship, checking for any deviation in its course, any sign that the presence of the
Nomad
might have been discovered. Rizzo stayed on the cannon, tracking the ship even though it was out of range, ready to fire should it suddenly present itself as an immediate threat and come into her sights. Thula and Alis made a final check on the mine, even, to Paul’s dismay, briefly activating the timer to make sure that it worked. Paul didn’t want to hear the words
activate
and
mine
used while the device was still on board the
Nomad
. Peris prepped the ship for a fast getaway, conducting the same checks required prior to a boost. Tiray was enlisted to assist with stowing away any loose items, but he helped only reluctantly, despite the fact that a falling helmet could concuss him just as easily as any of them.

Paul tried to keep an eye on everything at once. Most of his attention lay with Steven and the other ship cruising only half a mile above the planet’s surface. The
Nomad
was like a small fish hiding from a great shark, knowing that its refuge was only temporary, and it would inevitably be found; it could only hope its speed and agility would be enough to save it from the predator’s jaws.

When all was ready, and Paul was certain that no more could be done, they waited, silently watching the display, monitoring the slow, certain movements of the hostile ship as it scanned the landscape for traces of intrusion.

“Give me a count,” said Paul. “Fifteen-second intervals.”

“Five minutes, at present velocity,” said Steven.

“Understood. Alis, prepare for release on my command.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Alis moved into position, Thula shadowing her. By now Thula was growing familiar with the Mech. He didn’t understand quite what she had done with the timer and the mine, for Thula’s particular strengths did not lie in electronics and circuitry, but he was an astute observer of body language, and was able to get out of Alis’s way an instant before she moved, and intervene to lift or hold before she even had to ask.

“Four forty-five,” said Steven.

Something on the display caught his attention: a minute change in the hunter’s course and velocity. He stayed with it until he was certain that it was no cause for alarm.

“Four thirty.”

Paul moved to join Alis and Thula in the area of the
Nomad
above the weapons bay, which contained the mines and torpedoes. The mine could not be released while the
Nomad
was on the ground, but their heat signature would draw the hunter to them the moment that they lifted off. Yes, the deployment of weaponry could be controlled from the cockpit, but Alis had elected to carry out her part in the plan at the bay so that she could focus on it more completely. The Mech did not want any distractions when dropping the mine, and she was once again plugged directly into the ship’s systems. In case of any problems, she had also left open part of the decking, exposing the manual release lever.

The plan at least had the virtue of being simple. At Paul’s signal, Steven would start the
Nomad
’s engines and lift the craft vertically until it was thirty or forty feet above the surface of the planet. The bay doors would then open, and the mine would drop (and
mine
and
drop
were two more words that made Paul uncomfortable when used in the same sentence). Once the mine was in place, the
Nomad
would beat a retreat west, on a course parallel to the ground and making no apparent attempt to ascend. Paul wanted the pursuing craft to stay low, and to head directly for the reactor. The
Nomad
was the bait in their trap, and to make it even more attractive to those hunting them, he had told Steven to adopt an uneven, halting movement, as though their ship
might have been damaged in the course of the many boosts that had brought it to Archaeon.

He gave one further order, one that caused even Peris to object: the bay doors were to remain open after the mine was released and until they had cleared the planet’s atmosphere, assuming they lived that long. It was not standard operating procedure; it was, in fact, actively against all protocols, but this way the bay would remain sealed off from the rest of the ship. It would be exposed to the atmosphere of Archaeon while the mine was being dropped into position, and Paul did not want to risk any of those spores taking up residence on the
Nomad
. His plan was that they would briefly reenter Archaeon’s atmosphere after leaving it, and the heat of reentry would burn everything in the open bay. They would be forced to dump all remaining mines and torpedoes before they tried to escape the planet, because heat and explosives did not mix, and Paul did not want to avoid being destroyed by their pursuers only to have the
Nomad
blown up by its own ordnance.

“Three thirty,” said Steven. “Three fifteen. Wait, they’re changing course! Heading toward us. Definitely heading toward us. Three minutes.”

“Someone has put two and two together,” said Peris.

“All right,” said Paul. “Alis, prepare for release. Steven, get us up in the air.”

The ship shuddered and vibrated as its engines kicked into life. They felt it ascend slowly, Steven exercising extreme caution because he had wedged them into the smallest space available among the various components of the reactor. Nevertheless, the
Nomad
still rocked slightly, and they were forced to grab hold of whatever they could in order to steady themselves. Only Tiray misjudged, crashing against the hull of the ship and striking his head. He sank to his knees, holding his injured scalp. A thin stream of blood trickled from it, but no one had time to see to him. He was conscious for now, so he couldn’t be too badly hurt, and Paul was secretly relieved that the politician was out of commission, if only for a while. He did not trust him, and had Tiray decided to interfere with Steven or Alis at this delicate time, he could have doomed them all.

“We’re clear,” said Steven.

“Hold her steady!” Paul ordered. “Alis, release the mine.”

They felt the bay doors open. Thula was poised above the manual release, ready to pull on it if necessary, but the mine dropped cleanly. Paul couldn’t help but tense for an explosion as the device descended, but Alis had done her work well. The mine would detonate, but only at the appointed time.

“Steven, start moving, and get ready to give us full throttle at my command.”

Steven did as he had been instructed, taking the
Nomad
away from the reactor while making it appear to limp like a wounded animal. He kept a close watch on the display as their pursuers accelerated to intercept them.

“God, it’s fast,” said Steven. “Forget what I said earlier. They’ll be at the reactor in fewer than five minutes.”

By now Alis and Thula were back with them. Paul gestured to her to take the copilot’s chair, and she did so.

“Is that going to give us enough time?” he asked.

“It will be close,” said Alis. “There are too many unknown factors to calculate with certainty. We don’t have any idea of the size of the reactor, or what kind of chain reaction an explosion might provoke. I can guarantee this: as long as it stays on its present course, that ship will be in the blast radius when the mine goes off, even if the reactor itself doesn’t blow. The question is, will we?”

Paul made his decision.

“Steven, perhaps it might be a good idea to accelerate a little. Do it gradually, but do it.”

“With pleasure,” said Steven.

He carefully increased their velocity, but kept the acceleration jittery. “They’re matching us,” he said.

“Thula, get Tiray secured in a chair,” said Paul. “Peris, lock yourself down.”

Thula lifted the woozy Tiray bodily from the floor, folded him into a chair, and strapped him in. Peris took the chair beside Tiray. Rizzo was already belted.

“They’re coming into range,” she said. “In range . . . now!”

At that instant, the ship was rocked by a blast from its port side.

“They’re firing on us!” shouted Steven.

“It’s got to be a warning shot,” Paul replied. He was surprised by how calm he sounded. “Rizzo, fire in response. We don’t want them to suspect that we’re drawing them in.”

Rizzo gave them a blast with the pulse cannon, her face lighting up with pleasure as she got to shoot at something at last.

“Lieutenant, they’re trying to communicate with us,” said Alis.

“Ignore them,” said Paul. “Whatever they have to say, we don’t need to hear it. Time to detonation?”

“One minute.”

“Time until that ship is dead meat?”

“Fifteen seconds.”

“Steven, you heard it. Fifteen seconds. At sixteen, you put your foot down and get us out of here.”

Another shot from the pursuing craft came across their bows, this time closer than the first. There would not be a third warning. If the bigger ship had pulse weapons—and there was no reason to assume it did not—it could fire a disabling blast at the
Nomad
, assuming their pursuers were willing to risk the
Nomad
crashing to the surface of Archaeon, and possibly killing everyone on board.

“Five seconds,” said Steven. “Four. Three. Two. One!”

Paul dived for a seat and strapped himself in just as Steven gave the
Nomad
full throttle. He was pressed back by the force of the acceleration, and he felt the vessel begin to rise slowly. They might have been on the cusp of a nuclear explosion, but Steven was still not about to risk ruining everything by making a sudden ascent.

“They’re staying in pursuit. Altering course again, but we’ve still got a good lead on them.”

“Rizzo, open fire,” ordered Paul. “All cannon! Just keep them occupied.”

Rizzo didn’t need to be told twice. She already had all three of the rotating heavy cannon directed behind them. She flipped a tab, and fired.

As she did so, the mine exploded, and seconds later the reactor itself. Even with the blast behind them, the cabin was bathed with white light so blinding that they had to cover their eyes with their hands. The
Nomad
shook with the force of the explosion, and had they not been strapped into their seats they would all have had their brains dashed out against the body of the ship. When Paul opened his eyes, he saw the planetary display flickering before him, the pursuing ship still on their tail.

And then the ship was gone, lost in a wave that swept from the core of what had once been the reactor, and the display vanished with it. Now the
Nomad
was shuddering again, but this time because it was breaching the planet’s atmosphere, shaking off Archaeon’s gravitational pull and entering the silence of space.

The display reconstituted itself. It revealed an overview of the planet, and a series of explosions emanating from the facilities linked to the reactor. Archaeon had just become a different kind of hell.

Rizzo broke the silence.

“Wow, we did that. Epic.”

CHAPTER 57

S
yl and Ani were summoned to the Thirteenth Realm, the home of the Half-Sisters, along with the only other Gifted first-year Novice, Mila.

They were led into a lecture hall filled to capacity with older Novices in a wash of sea-green robes—the Half-Sisters. Some wore gowns piped with the blue of the Gifted, psychics who may have been older but were not as talented as Tanit and her crew.

This was because it was only relatively recently that the Sisterhood had learned it could actively manipulate the abilities of those rare individuals in possession of psychic powers. With each intake, more resources were poured into developing the skills of young psychics during the narrow window of puberty, for their powers would stabilize once they reached maturity. In addition, it had transpired that the coming-of-age implantation of neural Chips could actually suppress—or, indeed, eliminate entirely—any such fledgling abilities, although this news had come too late for many of the older, and possibly psychically gifted, Half-Sisters. Chips were subsequently banned for all future psychics. By this twist of fate, Tanit and her fellow Gifted were the most powerful yet by some distance, putting the Half-Sisters to shame.

And there they were now, lounging in the front row like a fetid smear of deceptively lovely blue. Syl’s skin crawled at the sight of Sarea.

Before the assembly stood two Sisters in red, clearly waiting to begin. They looked up as the door opened, and as all faces turned to see the newcomers, the room went deathly quiet. The three Nov
ices froze where they were, uncertain, then Syl realized they weren’t looking at Ani or Mila, but instead at her, standing out in yellow, the only ordinary Novice in the room. She stood her ground, staring back defiantly, and gradually everyone turned away again, muttering their muted objections, occasionally glancing back at Syl.

“Mila,” called a voice from within the knot of blue. It was Xaron. “Mila, Ani, over here.”

Ani plucked at Syl’s sleeve and, reluctantly but with no better offer, Syl followed. Tanit glared at Syl, but Dessa smiled in delight and shuffled over, making room for Syl at the very end of the bench, while Ani and Mila were squeezed in at the middle.

“I heard you might be coming to the ball,” Dessa whispered. “This couldn’t be working out better.”

Syl felt a wave of gratitude, even affection, for the older girl. She couldn’t decide if this was good or bad, but didn’t have time to think about it for the meeting began.

“Present today are those of the unordained Novitiate who have been hand-selected by our order for a great honor,” declared one of the Sisters in red, her pronouncement bringing the room to silence once more. It was the applied diplomacy lecturer, Priety, upright and proper, but for once she smiled, for they all knew what was coming.

“By the grace of Her Eminence Archmage Syrene, you are hereby invited to represent the Nairene Sisterhood at the Genesis Ball.”

The applause rang loud as bells.

“As you are doubtless aware, the purpose of the Genesis Ball is to introduce eligible Sisters, as well as selected Half-Sisters and Novices, to Illyri society. Since you will be ambassadors for our order, you will be dressed in the finest attire we can offer, and your behavior will, of course, be exemplary at all times. But then why should it be anything other, for do we not embody all that is great about the Illyri?”

There was more applause, and a smattering of raucous cheers. At this, Priety frowned her disapproval, and immediately the shouting ceased.

“Today I shall be covering rules and expectations, just to be sure that we all understand what is required of us. Then appointments will
be made for dress fittings. In the interim, there will be deportment and dancing classes, along with applied diplomacy refresher classes.”

She paused and smiled, but no one felt the need to applaud this.

“Finally, while we attend to these pressing matters, you will all be excused from your normal duties and classes . . .”

Even her glare couldn’t shut off the spontaneous clapping and cheering that exploded through the room.

“. . . in order that you may study current affairs and matters of leadership and politics, so that you may speak knowledgeably . . .” She trailed off, shrugging with feigned indifference as her voice was drowned out.

•  •  •

Syl found herself being taken through the Thirteenth Realm again, and then into the rarefied Fourteenth, where no Novice was supposed to go unaccompanied, ushered onward for the first of several fittings with the skilled seamstresses of the Sisterhood. With her were Ani and Mila. Mila hooked her arm through Ani’s possessively and ignored Syl, but without the backing of her sister, Xaron, or the other Gifted, Mila seemed subdued and even a little jumpy.

“Wow!” said Ani as they passed the red curlicued walls that caught the light, twinkling gently, as if they were down a mine of precious gemstones. And she gasped again as they moved through the cavernous, towering living quarters of the Fourteenth Realm. Syl nodded and played along, but her chest thumped with worry that one of the white-robed Service Sisters would spot her. Yes, her wild bronze hair had been hidden in a headscarf on her previous incursions, and yes, she’d barely spoken to anyone, apart from Lista, yet still fear clutched at her guts.

As they moved onward and away from the areas she’d been in before, she paid close attention to the route they were taking and also to the space they were in, although most doors they passed remained shut. The farther they moved from the Twelfth and Thirteenth Realms, the more that Red Sisters stared at the interlopers, some with small smiles as if they knew that this trio of shy Cinderellas had been invited
to the ball, and some in bafflement. They whispered and sometimes pointed, and again Syl garnered the most attention in her yellow garb. She looked at her feet and walked on with her head bent, for it seemed to guarantee her more anonymity that way, especially as she intended to come back to explore just as soon as she could.

Finally they were led through a door and into the Seventh Realm, and Syl almost laughed, for this was where she’d initially told Lista she lived: this! Now she understood Lista’s bemusement, for it was immediately apparent that things were different in this Realm. The Seventh was carved deep into the old stone of Avila Minor, and here the seamstresses worked in tight, brightly lit caverns overflowing with bolts of jewel-colored fabric and spools of vibrant silk. Jars of trinkets and baubles lined the walls and spilled across the floors. The hallways were spiked with hooks upon which hung newly crafted garments and just-cut pattern pieces, as well as completed robes and finery, wrapped in clear parchment and labeled for collection, or delivery, or adjustment. Large, ornate cases displayed what were clearly museum pieces, including faded, threadbare red robes in the styles of yesteryear, and jeweled gowns as ancient and fragile as cobwebs.

Wide-eyed, Syl, Ani, and Mila were ushered into three large interlinked caves. The space on the left was heaped to the ceiling with what appeared to be jars of butterfly wings, buttons, and sparkling crystals, separated by color and design. On the right, furs, silks, and hides were stacked beside rolls of iridescent cloth, and cloth that glowed, and cloth that seemed to have pictures moving across it: ferns caught in a breeze, clouds rumbling across a horizon, flowers nodding in the sunlight.

Everything overflowed into the cave in the center, where a clutch of energetic seamstresses stood waiting for them. All wore custom-made red robes, the sleeves cut short so that they wouldn’t interfere with their work, and various implements and pins dangled from their skirts.

At the core of the group a lone Sister sat on the only chair in the room, and although she appeared substantially younger than the others, she was clearly in charge. Her hair was shaved short, shorter even than was customary among full Sisters, but wings, frayed strands of
ribbon, tiny beads, glitter, and threads of silver had caught—or been placed—on the stubble covering her skull, so that she seemed to be wearing a close-fit cap crafted from torn insects and the sparkling ghosts of frivolity past.

“That’s Sister Illan, the chief Nairene designer, but you are to call her ‘Your Elegance,’” whispered their escort, before scurrying outside to wait.

Sister Illan watched closely as they walked toward her, and nodded almost dismissively at their polite greetings. Mila and Ani, in their rich blue robes, were beckoned forward and a lackey instructed them to twirl before the designer. Illan eyed them shrewdly, making notes and quick sketches on a screen before her. Next they were told to remove their robes, and they stood there shy and exposed in their undergarments while the seamstresses whispered among themselves. Finally Illan spoke.

“The only stipulation from Her Eminence, the Archmage Syrene, is that each debutante should wear the color that denotes her station. This is customary. So you two will be in blue, obviously; beautiful Gifted blue.”

She smiled, almost warmly, and they smiled back eagerly.

“Thank you, Your Elegance,” said Ani.

“Yes, thank you,” Mila added.

“Come,” Illan said, standing up and leading them over to an arrangement of blue cloth. She turned and studied the pair one last time, prodding Mila’s shoulders hard so that the girl stood up straight, and then pinching Ani on the cheek.

“A lovely face,” she declared, looking closely at Ani. “A great pity you’re not taller, but you’re quite enchanting nonetheless.”

Mila wriggled, clearly hoping for a compliment of her own, but the designer was unforthcoming.

“I think I have just the thing for you,” was all Illan said to her, and she picked up a length of dark blue velvet, pushing the fabric into Mila’s hands.

“Just stand up straight and it will look very well on you,” she told
Mila, who visibly wilted. “We can trim it with stones, I would say, yes, Sister Rundl?”

“Indeed, Your Elegance,” said one of the seamstresses, stepping forward to take charge of Mila. “Sapphires?”

“Oh dear me, no. The lapis lazuli or similar will suffice,” said Illan, clearly bored with the notion, and Sister Rundl herded the dejected-looking Mila and her uninspired blue fabric away.

“But for you, pretty one with the silver hair,” said Illan, stroking Ani’s mane, “for you I think we need something extra special.”

She touched several fabrics, shaking her head, then wandered deeper into the section of the cave filled with textiles until she could no longer be seen. They all waited silently, Syl forgotten near the door, and Ani half-naked and blushing in the bright light. Finally Illan reappeared looking very pleased with herself.

“This,” she said, and she held up an indigo waterfall. At least that’s what it appeared to be, for even as it settled and finally fell still, the marks on the sheer fabric flowed over each other, eddying and tumbling and sending up plumes of foam. With a flourish, Illan draped the fabric over Ani’s shoulders so that she appeared to be emerging like a mermaid from a pool of restless water, her hair echoing the silver spray. The seamstresses all applauded.

“Perfect,” said the designer. “Do you like it?”

“I do, Your Elegance. Very much.”

“Good. It suits you, but then I suspect most things would.”

She pointed to one of her team.

“Xela—I’d like you to take this one, for the finest fabrics need the finest needles.”

“Of course, Sister Illan,” said Xela as she came forward to take Ani away. “I shall not let you down.”

With the fabric still flooding around her neck, Ani was led from the cavern. Now Illan turned to Syl, and frowned.

“I thought I’d imagined you, but no, you’re still here. And still in yellow.”

“I am, Your Elegance,” said Syl, and she couldn’t help but glance
greedily at the lush fabrics piled behind the designer. She’d never admit it, but she too wanted to be beautiful for the ball.

“So the rumor is true, then . . . But why, pray tell, is a mere Yellow Novice going to the Genesis Ball?”

Syl said nothing, and Illan sighed heavily.

“It is not for me to question the powers that be,” she said dramatically, upon which the others laughed loudly, as if this was precisely what Illan enjoyed doing most of all. “If I must make a costume of yellow, then so be it.”

“Thank you, Your Elegance,” said Syl, and she felt ashamed.

“Oh, I’m sure I can force myself to, although I hope Syrene does not intend to make a habit of it. I loathe yellow, and yet it is my second time working in it this year. I suppose at least this time I have a whole, live Novice to work on, not pieces of a dead one!”

Everyone laughed again, and Illan looked affronted when Syl didn’t join in.

“I apologize, Your Elegance, but I don’t understand,” said Syl.

“Nor should you, but if Novices will get themselves crushed by falling walls . . . Anyway. Take those robes off. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

For Syl, Illan quickly selected a bolt of pale yellow fabric that changed hue as the light hit it. Nobody seemed particularly impressed by it, or bothered with her—least of all the unnamed seamstress who was assigned to her—but secretly Syl loved it. The material felt shivery as it slipped over her skin, soft and cool, but more important, the changing colors put her in mind of the almost forgotten light and shadow of the burning Earth-sun as it tipped over the golden dunes of the Namib Desert, in southern Africa. Her father had taken her there once when she was merely a child, and with Syl squished safely between his knees aboard a flat toboggan, together they’d sailed down the mountains of shifting, soft sand, screaming in delight. Lord Andrus’s staff had looked away to hide their smiles.

“And decoration, Sister Illan?” said the seamstress in a bored voice.

“Oh, I’m sure amber will do. Don’t waste the precious gems on a Yellow Novice.”

And Syl went away to be measured and fitted.

• • •

In the run-up to the Genesis Ball, Syl made several more visits to the Seventh Realm of the Marque, where her yellow dress was cut and styled until it fell over her in soft, vaguely clinging curves, the long sleeves cut into trailing, pointed cuffs that floated beneath her arms like wings. A low-slung belt of amber and leather was crafted to cinch it together, and Syl felt like a warrior princess. Not that anyone seemed to care what she thought or felt, but still Illan and her staff took pride in their work—in all their work—and so even Mila’s comparatively dull velvet material was fashioned into something lovely and Romanesque, with rough blue stones and chunks of raw quartz decorating the hem and neckline.