Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy) (31 page)

But Ani’s dress was the most beautiful by far, the cut simple and elegant, rippling close to her skin at the front and showing off her neat figure to best effect, while behind the fabric fell free as a cloak, like water cascading wildly down her back, with the hem splashing behind her as if she were trailing rapids. Sapphires caught the material together like droplets of impossibly blue water, and Syl sighed in envy when she saw her friend at the final fitting. Privately, she felt glad that Paul would not be there to see how very beautiful Ani could be, as wild and wanton as an ocean beside Syl’s gentle, placid sand.

In between the fittings, the deportment classes, dancing lessons, and the seemingly endless Applied Diplomacy lectures, Syl also managed a few more illicit forays into the Marque, with Lista’s cartograph tucked in the pocket of her white robes alongside the contraband keys, and her telltale hair wrapped securely in a Service Sister headscarf. Each time she went she tried to explore somewhere new, but the libraries and other structures of Avila Minor were vast, greater in scope than she’d ever imagined, burrowing deep into the ground with Realms often interlinked by countless passageways and tunnels, so that sometimes she ended up where she started. Still, she felt she was getting a sense of the place, and her fear of being caught diminished too, for with the number of Sisters scurrying about and the countless places they might be going to, one more wench in domestic whites went un
noticed in the throng. Yet still she was cautious, for she feared Oriel: Syl’s disguise would be no match for the old witch, and she had little desire to become cascid fodder.

Back in her quarters she made a rough map of where she’d been, and a list of the different Realms she’d entered and what they contained. For instance, most of the hydroponic farming of food, as well as the general organization of the complex logistics required for running an operation as vast as the Marque—from fresh air to running water—seemed to take place in the Tenth and Eleventh Realms, which were roughly central to the entire community. Both of these also had large landing areas for incoming craft.

She had made it as far as the doors to what was apparently the Sixteenth Realm, but this area was locked and required special permission to access, though from what she’d heard—and overheard—the Sixteenth housed all manner of creatures that flew and crawled and slithered on their bellies from both the homeworld and other worlds. Cleaning in the Sixteenth was a particularly noxious duty, which the Service Sisters universally loathed. The Sixteenth was in turn linked to the Ninth, which provided some overflow facilities, and was where Syl had seen what looked remarkably like a unicorn on her first visit.

And in every Realm she entered she found libraries, vast and daunting, epic repositories of everything that the Illyri knew or had encountered. For such a claustrophobic place, Syl found it ironic that you could be locked in here forever and still discover everything there was to know in the universe.

•  •  •

As for Syl’s injuries, by now the pain in her hand had all but subsided, and it seemed everyone had accepted the story of how she’d hurt herself when she’d supposedly fallen in the changing rooms. Even Ani didn’t question it, but her studious avoidance of the topic suggested to Syl that she suspected more, yet preferred not to know, and she certainly didn’t ask. This hurt Syl, but it also made her more comfortable about keeping her forbidden forays into the rest of the Marque
a secret from her best friend. If Ani noticed her prolonged absences, she didn’t mention them either. Often she wandered off and looked for Tanit, then artfully feigned surprise when she stumbled across the older girl. Sometimes, Syl wondered if Ani was a little in love with her, for her cheeks turned pink in the older Novice’s presence, and increasingly it seemed that all Ani wanted to do was impress Tanit. But Tanit never exposed her ruse, and instead always smiled and welcomed Ani with apparent delight, making space for her by her side as she would a sweet foundling, or a pretty little pet.

Meanwhile Nemein smiled indulgently, for she was convinced that the starstruck first year had no chance of usurping her own place in the hierarchy, and selective kindness painted her in a good light.

As for Sarea, she said nothing, for she had become intermittently brooding and sullen following the incident with Syl. The damaged finger on her previously flawless hands had healed slightly crooked, and now bent unnaturally at the knuckle. This imperfection bothered her, but she rebuffed offers from the medical team to attempt to straighten it.

“No,” she informed Thona and the rest of the Gifted, “I shall keep it as a reminder that once I was weak, that once I was careless, that my own powers are so great even I myself am at risk. And I shall never let that happen again. Never! I shall practice until I am unstoppable.”

When Oriel was told this, she nodded encouragingly, and pride pulsed through her cold heart, for such devotion to the cause would please Syrene greatly. Indeed, it would please everyone—and everything—that mattered.

And meanwhile, in the privacy of her bedroom, Syl obsessively sharpened her own psychic talents, honing her skills every spare moment she could find, for she felt a change coming, like the shift in the air before a thunderstorm, and she knew she must be prepared.

CHAPTER 58

I
t was only in the aftermath, following a brief reentry to the planet’s atmosphere to scour the ship of spores, and the boost through the Archaeon wormhole, that the enormity of what he had done struck Paul. The
Nomad
’s display showed a series of blast points on the surface, the largest of them where the reactor had once stood. Alis had adjusted the 3-D image of the planet to track the spread of radiation, and with each second that went by another area of Archaeon turned from green to red. It was hard to conceive of anything surviving the catastrophe that they—that Paul—had inflicted on the ecosystem below.

Was he any better than the Illyri after all? They had sacrificed Archaeon to the unknown organisms for reasons known only to a handful of them. Now Paul had finished off the planet, justifying his actions on the grounds that they were necessary to save his own world. But who was he to make that decision? Who was he to decide that one world, or one species, was more worthy of survival than another? He had done the wrong thing for the right reason, or what he believed to be the right reason, but this did not change the fact that he was responsible for a terrible act of destruction.

And then there was the craft that had been swallowed up in the first explosion. He had never contemplated negotiating with its commander, never considered any possibility other than drawing it into a trap from which it could not escape. He had given no chance to those on board. It didn’t matter to him now that if the situation had been reversed, they would probably have shown him and his crew no mercy either. He didn’t want to be the same as the worst of the Illyri. He wanted to be better than all of them.

With another boost imminent, Paul sat in the captain’s quarters, his eyes empty, his heart filled with a guilt that threatened to overwhelm him entirely.

Alis appeared at the door, but she had to say his name twice before he took notice of her.

“What is it?”

“We’re at the next wormhole, but I think we should delay the boost until we’ve run a diagnostics check on the ship. She’s been through a lot. We don’t want to enter another wormhole and have her come apart around us. I was surprised she made it out of the Archaeon system without a problem.”

There wouldn’t be much that they could do if the
Nomad
was badly damaged, thought Paul. They were far from any maintenance facility, and the ship appeared to be carrying only the minimum of spare parts. Whoever had sent it after Tiray had not reckoned on it having to perform more than a couple of jumps before it returned home with its prize.

“How long will it take?”

“Not more than an hour, if I patch myself in directly.”

“Please do it.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Alis did not move.

“Was there something else?” Paul asked.

He could see her trying to formulate the words she wished to speak. He could hear them already, although they remained yet unspoken:
You did what you had to do, you had no choice
 . . .

“Do you feel guilt?” she asked at last.

“Yes,” he replied. “I do.”

“Good. You should.”

He felt his anger rising. He did not need this artificial being, this imitation of a living creature, criticizing him. She had no right. If anyone were going to torment him, it would be himself.

If Alis saw the effect her words were having on him, she took no notice. Instead she continued to speak.

“I am glad that you are in pain. I am pleased that you feel ashamed
of what you have done—what
we
have done, for I assisted you every step of the way. If you did not experience these emotions, you would be less of a sentient being. For someone to unleash such destruction and not feel the burden of it would be a sign of sickness, of madness. We committed a wrong to prevent a greater wrong. We did what was necessary, and it cannot be undone, but we will bear the mark of it upon our souls, and we will answer for it to the Creator.”

“And what will the ‘Creator’ say,” asked Paul, “when we face him?”

“Who can tell?” replied Alis. “But I believe this: there is no sin so great that it cannot be forgiven, and the Creator will consider the intention as much as the act in making his judgment. Anyway, I will inform you of the results of the diagnostic as soon as I have collated the data.”

He managed something like a smile.

“Thank you, Alis.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and you used the word
him
of the Creator. Why did you do that?”

Good grief, thought Paul. Next thing you know she’ll be trying to sell me a Bible.

“Because I always have,” he said. “Because my church always referred to our god as male.”

“You think of the Creator as male because you are male, and your church exists through the rule of men. Your holy books talk of man being created in your god’s image, but I think instead that you have imagined him in yours. It’s odd, don’t you think?”

“Is it? I’ve never really thought about it.”

“It’s odd to believe in an entity that gave birth to planets, galaxies, every form of life, and yet conceive of it as male.”

“Do you see this Creator as a woman, then?”

“I do not ‘see’ the Creator at all. The Creator simply is.”

“Alis,” said Paul, smiling, “you are an unusual individual, and I don’t say that simply because you’re a Mech. Go and start the diagnostics. I’ll join you in a moment.”

He watched her leave. His dark mood had been broken by her words—it was not gone, but it was eased somewhat. A figure emerged from the shadows and intercepted Alis. It was Steven. His brother
reached for the Mech, and touched her gently on the cheek with his right hand. She bowed her head and placed it against Steven’s shoulder, so that her face was turned in Paul’s direction. She saw him watching them, but she did not try to move away from his brother.

Paul simply turned his back, and left them in peace for a time.

•  •  •

The diagnostic check, when complete, revealed weaknesses in two of the exterior panels, either as a result of the impact of the asteroid on the ship or the proximity of the shots it had received across its bows on Archaeon. They were not a source of immediate concern, according to Alis, but they would need to be checked after each jump. She also advised routing their way back to Illyr via the most stable wormholes. Steven calculated that could be done in four boosts, but it would take them days.

Paul consulted with Peris.

“Will they still be looking for us?” he asked.

Peris thought for a couple of seconds, then pulled up from the
Nomad
’s memory an image of the ship that had hunted them on Archaeon. He pointed at two structures, one on either side of the main body.

“They’re hangars, but our final scan just before it was destroyed suggests they were empty,” said Peris. “This was a small mothership, and I’d say that the
Nomad
once rested in one of those bays, and the ship we destroyed at Torma was transported in the other. For now, it seems our most direct pursuers are no more. It’s possible that the mothership may have sent a message informing others of its intention to investigate a possible intrusion into the Archaeon system. If so, it will have taken some time for the message to be received, and still more for a response to be decided upon. We’re safe, for now, but the question remains: what happens when we draw closer to Illyr? Whoever created this ship won’t want it to be discovered.”

“We’ll send out a distress call on a Military channel as soon as we near a beacon,” said Paul. “We’ll let our own forces escort us in, but my orders are to reveal nothing—
nothing
—about the true nature of
this ship. As far as any Military or Corps vessel may be concerned, this is a Nomad ship, seized by us following an attack by unknown forces at Torma.”

“That story won’t hold up under close examination, and there will be a full inquiry. The Military does not take lightly the loss of a destroyer—even one attached to the Brigades.”

“Our story doesn’t have to be watertight,” said Paul. “It just has to hold up for long enough to get us to the Illyr system without someone deciding to annihilate us in order to destroy evidence of this ship’s existence. Once we’re back at Illyr, you can see about getting in touch with senior Military commanders that you trust, and we can start telling the truth.”

The thought of explaining what they had found on Archaeon seemed to cause Peris’s shoulders to sag.

“I have instructed Alis to place all recordings and images from Archaeon on a secure drive,” said Peris. “We will present evidence of a secret facility on the planet, apparently designed to allow an unknown alien species to breed. But the rest—the implantations of a similar species in the bodies of Corps officials, and a possible plot to contaminate the Earth with these organisms—well, that can only be speculation for the moment.

“And, Paul, you don’t need me to tell you how dangerous it is for us to be in possession of this information. Our best hope is that nobody on Illyr yet knows that we have been to Archaeon. It will give me time to make the correct approaches. While we can say with some certainty that this is a Corps operation, the Military is not as hostile to the Corps as it once was. There was a time when I could have trusted every senior officer without hesitation, but that time is gone. The Sisterhood has its claws in the Military, and who knows how many officers have suspect loyalties? We must move carefully.”

Paul understood. Part of him wanted to broadcast what they had discovered on every available channel, to blast it with loudspeakers from every rooftop in every city on Earth, but he accepted that Peris was right to be cautious. Yet if Peris and his allies did not act fast enough, then Paul would take matters into his own hands if he could.
If those spores were ultimately destined for Earth, then a clock was ticking on his own planet’s future. He thought of his mom, and his friends, and of Trask, Nessa, Jean, and Just Joe. He thought of Heather and little Alice. And he thought of Fremd—the Green Man, yet no more human than Syl was. He sighed heavily.

“What about Tiray?” he asked after a few moments silence.

“I’ve spoken with him. He appears as disturbed as we are by what he saw on Archaeon. He agrees that the proper authorities need to be informed, but he will not say what he believes those authorities to be. He’s keeping his own counsel.”

“Again, can he be trusted? And no cynical asides about politicians, please. I’d like a straight answer.”

“From what I know of him, I would say yes, we can trust him.”

“Keep an eye on him anyway.”

“I will. Now, may I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“You have weapons. You have a fast ship, one with no identifiers, which makes it hard to hunt. You have a loyal crew. You could run, and perhaps find your way back to Earth using the wormhole map. But instead you seem willing, even eager, to go to Illyr. Why?”

“Because,” said Paul, “the Marque orbits Illyr, and Syl is on the Marque.”

“You want to try to see her?” asked Peris. “But no male can set foot on Avila Minor. To do so is an instant sentence of life imprisonment, assuming the Marque’s security systems don’t deal with you first. From what I hear they don’t have a stun setting. They’re designed only to kill.”

Paul laid a hand on Peris’s upper arm.

“I’m not going to try to see her,” he assured him.

Peris looked relieved, but only until Paul spoke again.

“I’m going to rescue her.”