Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (54 page)

“You've had a bad experience, and it has upset your mind. You're safe now, and no one can hurt you anymore. You can get better if you want to. Do you want to get better?”

He nodded, watching her closely.

“Good. I want you to get better, too. It is going to take time. But mostly it's going to take a lot of work. Very hard work. No one can do it for you. If you want to get well, you'll have to work at it. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“We will help you all we can. But it's going to be up to you. If you want to get well,
you're
going to have to do the work, Crocker.”

“I'm tired,” the pilot said and laid down, placing his head on his arm. He closed his eyes.

Yarden glanced at Anthon, who rose quietly and said, “It's enough for now. We'll go.”

“We're going now, Crocker. But I'll come back to see you tomorrow before I leave. All right? Good night.”

They crept from the tent to the sigh of Crocker's deep rhythmic breathing. They walked a few paces away. Stars glittered in the high, wide sky and shimmered in the mirrored bay.

“He's asleep already. Out like a light”—she snapped her fingers “—just that quick. Simply talking to me exhausted him.”

“The trauma was severe. It will take time to heal.”

“He looks so fragile. Can he really come back?”

“Yes; it's entirely possible. Eino and the Preceptor have examined him, and they agree. But it is as you say. Recovery will take hard work, and it will be up to him to do the work. There is no other way.”

Yarden thought about this. Yes, it did sometimes seem the hardest work of all to impose order on the chaos of thoughts and emotions, to think clearly, rationally. Sometimes it took all the strength of will she possessed.

Yarden shivered and rubbed her hands over her arms, feeling goose bumps. “Poor Calin. I keep thinking about her, and I can't believe it—it's like a bad dream.” They walked along a while in silence and came to Yarden's tent. “Isn't there anything we can do for Crocker?”

“Oh yes,” replied Anthon. “Encourage him, try to make him understand what he must do, support him. You'd be surprised how much that can help. But you must realize that ultimately he will have to make the decision to get well for himself. No one can make the decision for him.”

“Thank you, Anthon.” Yarden smiled wanly. “I'm glad you're here. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

The balons took on
color as the sun rose: royal blue, red, verdigris, saffron, violet, and bronze. They tugged at their tether lines, anxious to leave the great green field for their true home, the clean, empty skies of Empyrion. As the sun climbed above the horizon, the first airship broke free and drifted silently upward.

As if this was the signal they had been waiting for, the others rose as one, floating heavenward in slow, dignified procession, like so many puffballs rising on the wind. They ascended in silence, their bulbous shapes ghostly in the fresh light.

Fierra, the glowing sunstone of its gracious buildings fading now with the coming of day, lay peacefully below, surrounded by fields and fruit groves on three sides and the great silver bowl of Prindahl on the fourth. When each balon had gained sufficient altitude above the sleeping city, the massive engines sparked to life and with a deep, throaty purr pushed the graceful aircraft into the early morning sky.

Under power, the ships turned and headed west, their spherical shadows going before them, gliding over the hills. Only one person saw them go. Mathiax stood alone on the edge of the airfield and watched the balons rise, take power, and purr swiftly away. He watched until the huge spheres were mere colored flecks in the sky and then held up his hands, saying, “Go with all goodness and return in peace. I send you in the power of the Infinite Father, Creator of us all.”

Away
to the north, another balon was making its way across the ragged peaks of the Light Mountains. The sharp, red-brown spires and pyramids, flattened by the balon's altitude into a dull, featureless rumple, took on a measure of its actual shape as the shadows cast by the rising sun threw the mountainscape into knife-sharp relief.

Aboard, the crew and the passengers—Talus, Bohm, and Jaire—still slept, except for the pilot and navigator on duty. They monitored the flight and marked their hourly progress on the large projection of their destination on the flightboard.

“The wind is with us,” remarked the navigator as he returned to his station beside the balon pilot. “We're making good time. I've estimated our ETA—we should reach the bay early tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good,” answered the pilot. “That means we can catch the others en route and arrive at Dome together.”

There came a chime, and presently the relief pilot and navigator appeared to take their places. They logged in, saying, “Go get some sleep, you two. We'll take over from here.” And the balon pushed on, its engines booming in the rock canyons of Taleraan far below.

As
the sun flamed the ocher bluffs, whose reflections shone like gold in the dark olive-tinted water of the bay, Crocker slipped from the tent. He padded silently down to the water's edge and stood for a moment gazing at the bluffs. He saw a familiar shape perched on the rim of the nearest cliff, watching, waiting.

The man's head turned toward the Fieri encampment. The sun's first rays were reaching across the sand as the mountain's indigo shadows receded. Soon people would be waking and stirring. They would come to the bay to swim; the air would fill with the sound of their voices. The fish would come near once more before taking their newborn young back out to the deeper waters of their ocean home.

Now, before anyone will see. Do it now.

Crocker untied the cloth belt at his waist and shrugged the brown shirt from his shoulders. He let the trousers fall and stepped out of them. He waded into the water of the bay to his waist and cupped water in his hands, drank, and splashed handfuls of water over his body. He walked back to shore and stood for a long moment, looking at the tents spread over the sand.

“Too hard,” he muttered to himself. He turned his eyes away to the west and began running toward the bluffs and the wevicat waiting for him atop the seacliff.

A
sharp kick in the ribs brought Fertig awake. He moaned and rolled over weakly. “On your feet. The Supreme Director wants to see you now.” The guard raised his foot to kick again. “I said, on—”

“No! No! I'm getting up. See? I'm getting up.”

Fertig was taken from the filth-encrusted cell and half-pushed, half-dragged through the corridor to a waiting em. Two Mors Ultima stood beside the vehicle; he was shoved in, and they drove off.

The journey went by in an anxious blur, and when Fertig roused himself from his stupor, they were stopping in Threl Square. A stupendous Jamrog stared down at him from the enormous banners ringing the square. He heard the shush of feet on the stone and saw a platoon of Invisibles marching in double time across the empty square. Then he was hauled from the em and pushed toward the immense gray columns of the Threl Chambers entrance.

They passed between the columns—and a double row of Nilokerus security men—and entered the gigantic ground-floor chamber. At the far end of the vaulted room, red streamers hung down from the ceiling over the crystal bier of Sirin Rohee. They swept past the transparent coffin, and Fertig glanced at the ashen corpse within. The shrunken, waxy remains little resembled the former Supreme Director whose life had so dominated his own.

It was just a glimpse, and they were past. They rode a lift up through the core of the building to the Supreme Director's kraam, paused outside, and waited to be announced. A moment later, the unidor snapped off and Fertig was propelled inside.

Jamrog stood on a riser in the center of a room much changed since Fertig had last seen it. In the shifting light of torches he saw sumptuous furnishings, fine Bolbe hangings, great standing jars of greenery, and tables laden with fruit and food. The Supreme Director himself was dressed in an opulent hagerobe of blood-red with designs worked in shimmering silver. It was open from neck to ankles and he stood with legs splayed, twirling a bhuj in his hands. Beside him on the riser stood the wasted Diltz, whom Fertig recognized as one of the coterie of grasping underdirectors he'd overseen as Nilokerus Subdirector and Hladik's rightful successor.

Jamrog bent his head to catch a whispered word from Diltz as Fertig was brought forward. The Supreme Director held up his hand and beckoned the guards closer. “Bring him to me; I want to see him.”

The guards yanked him closer. Jamrog lowered the bhuj and pressed its point into Fertig's chest. “That's close enough.” Jamrog smiled viciously. “Welcome home, Subdirector. We have missed you.”

Fertig threw a dark look at Diltz. Jamrog saw it and said, “I see you remember Diltz. Yes,
Director
Diltz. What did you expect? Hladik departed life so quickly, he left a void in the Hage hierarchy. The Hage had to have a Director, and you, unfortunately, were not to be found.”

Jamrog spoke so calmly, so reasonably, Fertig began to hope that he would succeed after all, that the value of the information he held would buy his life. “I am sorry, Supreme Director. I was frightened. Confused.”

“Yes, and you forgot who your friends were. Didn't you, Fertig?”

“I did forget, Supreme Director. It's true.”

“But now you have remembered. Is that so?”

“That's so, Supreme Director.” He could feel sweat dampening the palms of his hands.

Jamrog turned to Diltz. “There, you see, Diltz? A simple misunderstanding. Nothing so sinister as you suggest. He was frightened and ran away. And now he has come to his senses and returned. Just so.”

Fertig's heart leapt in his breast. This was better than he could have imagined. Jamrog must be in a supremely generous mood. Perhaps the rebels had already been subdued. The thought gave him a momentary pang. But after all, the situation was hopeless; it was every man for himself.

“Perhaps he is still frightened, Supreme Director,” suggested Diltz in his sepulchral voice. “Frightened enough to withhold valuable information.”

“You're not frightened anymore, are you, Fertig?” The prisoner shook his head. “There, you see, Diltz? He's not frightened anymore. And he knows what would happen to him if he withheld information that could help us crush this untidy rebellion.”

Jamrog stepped down from the riser and came to stand before Fertig. “You would have to go to interrogation. Unpleasant things can happen to a man during interrogation, I'm told. The Mors Ultima are very persuasive, but tend to be somewhat overdramatic.”

“They are most effective,” said Diltz.

“Bah! Listen to him, Fertig. I believe he wants you taken to interrogation. You don't want to go there, do you? You'd prefer to talk to us here and now. Isn't that right?”

As Jamrog was speaking, Mrukk stepped from behind the riser and came to stand facing him a little to the left. At the sight of the Mors Ultima commander, Fertig blanched. “Answer me, Subdirector. You'd like to tell us what you know.”

“Y-yes, Supreme Director, I'll talk to you now. I'll tell you everything I know ...” He hesitated, his mouth dry, sweat starting to seep through his clothes. “Everything. But my information is worth something.” He cringed as he said it. “I've already demonstrated its value—I told your commander where the rebels were hiding.”

Jamrog smiled and put his face close. “Of course. A very valuable piece of information, too. And you shall be repaid. Now, tell us where the tunnel exit is.”

Fertig licked his lips. “In Bolbe. It's near the material stores in deep Hage, I think.”

“You'll have to be more precise than that,” said Diltz, “if you expect us to believe you.”

“The scouts did not say precisely.”

“Are there connecting tunnels?” asked Mrukk, cold eyes glinting in the torchlight.

“No—none that I know of.”

“He doesn't seem to know very much,” remarked Diltz.

“I told you where you could find the rebels.”

Jamrog dismissed the matter with a jerk of his hand. “We have already discussed that. Besides, we would have found them eventually. Isn't that true, Mrukk?”

“We were very close to finding them when Fertig was captured.”

Fertig smiled weakly. “I—you did not capture me ... I came to you—brought you the information.”

“Is Tvrdy still in command?” asked Mrukk.

“Yes,” replied Fertig warily.

“What of the Fieri?” asked Jamrog.

“He is there as well. He was to lead the Dhogs to Fierra. They made a bargain.”

“Does he command?” Mrukk moved closer.

“No.” Fertig gave a quick shake of his head. “He tends the wounded mostly.”

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Jamrog. “Did you hear that, Diltz? The Fieri tends the wounded.”

“Remarkable.”

“Why does he do this?” asked Mrukk. “Do the other leaders not trust him?”

“They trust him. But he prefers to help the wounded. The others wanted to leave them behind, but he wouldn't allow it.”

The three inquisitors were silent.

Fertig glanced around him. “That's all I know. I've told you everything.”

“It isn't much,” replied Diltz.

“Nevertheless,” said Jamrog, “I agreed to pay him what he deserves.” He raised the bhuj, and Fertig saw that the ornate ceremonial blade had been honed to razor sharpness.

“What are you doing?” demanded Fertig. “I—told you ... my information ... I gave you ...”

Jamrog nodded, and Mrukk swiftly stepped behind the prisoner and jerked Fertig's arms back, pinning them behind his shoulders. “No! Please no!” he pleaded. “Send me away. Send me to reorientation.”

The two Mors Ultima seized Fertig's yos and tore it from his shoulders, baring his chest. Jamrog placed the blade against the soft flesh over Fertig's heart.

“No! No!” he screamed. “Don't kill me!”

The bhuj bit into the skin, and blood oozed out around the blade. “I'll go back to the rebels. I'll spy for you. I'll find the tunnel exit. I'll work for you. Please, let me go.”

“You're a traitor, Fertig. We could never trust a traitor.”