Hunt the Heavens: Book Two of the Shadow Warrior Trilogy (17 page)

“Quite well,”
Joshua said.
“Every time we Terrans have had someone like that, we end up killing each other over which god is the better.”

“I have heard of this,”
Jadera said.
“But it makes no sense. I have had it explained as what you Terrans call a god but understand it only as a concept in the mind, not reality. How could there be an argument, when there is but one truth?”

“How could there
not
be an argument,”
Wolfe countered,
“when every believer in truth I have known or read of seems to think that truth belongs exclusively to him and his friends?”

“I guess we were foredoomed to war against each other,”
Jadera said.

Wolfe’s attention was drawn to a table not far from his, a strangely carved, octagonal piece of furniture. At it sat an Al’ar of great age. His corpselike pallor was mottled, marred.

When he saw Wolfe looking at him, his hood flared to its full size, his grasping organ touched a stud, and the Al’ar and where he sat vanished.

Jadera had noted what occurred.
“That was Cerigo. He is one who holds firmly to the old ways, and believes that we should have fought you the instant our races came in contact rather than waiting. He also lost his entire brood-cluster in the war, so he has little ability to stand the sight of Terrans.”

“And I lost those who bred me as well,”
Wolfe said softly.
“Yet I still am sitting here. Perhaps his … truth is lacking in some areas.”

Jadera said nothing.

“Then we are what you call shamed,” Taen said in Terran, then returned to Al’ar.
“Please do not dwell on Cerigo and his behavior unless you must.”

Wolfe shrugged and turned back to his plate.

After a time, Jadera spoke again.
“When you were given your Al’ar name, did the Guardian who gave you that name tell you its history, or of the one he must have been thinking of when he bestowed it on you?”

“No,”
Wolfe said, startled.
“I did not know of any such.”

“That is odd,”
Jadera said.
“If he had not gone before, if he had not made the Crossing, I would inquire why not. When one of us is given his adult name, it is only after a long consultation, and the hatchling is given the opportunity to study the past and either accept or reject the name as being fitting.”

“Perhaps,”
Taen said,
“it was because he was unsure of whether it was right to bestow a name on this one even though he was an honest Seeker of the Way. That Guardian, whose name I must not use, since he is gone, hesitated, and I was forced to remind him that the codex had been consulted and such a thing was not forbidden, even though it had not been done within memory. Perhaps he intended to give the history to this One Who Fights From Shadows at a later time. Perhaps the war prevented that from occurring.”

“But still,”
Jadera said.
“The naming ceremony was not proper.”

He sat motionless for a moment.
“This must be rectified before any other matters can be dealt with, since one presses closely on the other.”

• • •

When the meal was finished, the Al’ar sat silently for a time, as was their custom.

Wolfe had done the same as a boy, among the Al’ar who taught him, and the old feeling of warmth, of belonging, came as he sat, still in voice and mind, among the Guardians.

Then, one by one, the projected visions of those elsewhere on the planet blinked out.

Jadera rose.
“I shall show you a burrow that we have modified as suitable for you.”

Another Al’ar led Taen away, and Joshua followed Jadera.

The chamber was octagonal, with a ceiling in various shades of purple that curved slightly downward at the corners. Where the resting rack would have been, soft, circular pillows in various colors had been piled inside a framework.

There was a table against one wall; a cup and a flask of some liquid sat on it.

“Is this satisfactory?”
Jadera inquired.
“Does this not shame us? We have done the best we know, but we never envisioned a Terran as anything other than … as being our guest.”

Joshua noted with amusement that a covered vessel and a neat pile of soft clothes was set discreetly in one corner.
“More than sufficient.”

Jadera held out his grasping organs, turned, and left. Joshua yawned, undressed, and lay down on the pillows, wondering what they were normally used for.

His hand stretched out and found the empty holster his gun should have been in. A thought came that this was one of the few times in many years a weapon hadn’t been ready at hand, yet he felt no anxiety.

Then he closed his eyes and sleep dropped like a curtain about his mind.

• • •

Wolfe was asleep, but not asleep. He dreamed, but what came and went in his mind were not dreams.

• • •

The universe his sac opened in was not the one he had known. It was already old, decaying toward rebirth.

• • •

He had a memory of those who’d chosen to breed him, and of those other adults who cared for his cluster as they swarmed, grew, fed, played.

Wolfe, dreaming, tried to feel happiness, contentment, anger, laughter, could not.

There was but satisfaction at being fed, at besting another or of helping another of the cluster against a third, then the lesser satisfaction of helping another better “him” self.

He was Al’ar.

• • •

There were places set aside for hatchlings where no adult went. Some were mountainous, some covered with many breeds of ferns, from tiny ones that crumpled in his grasping organs to ones that towered above him and hid the sky. Other places had lakes and islands.

The hatchlings went into these places and formed groups or lived singly, doing as they had seen adults do, attempting those tasks adults did and they would do in their turn.

They fought, one against one, one against several, several against one.

Hatchlings died, but this was as it should be so the race would grow, would increase, would progress.

The one who had not yet been given a name killed more than most, and this was noted, both by his elders and other clusters.

• • •

There were five of them. When the third moon set, they met outside the cave their cluster was living in. They knew the direction to take, had walked most of it during daylight, thinking of other things so as not to alarm the hatchling who carried death with him.

That one without a name had built a burrow that was not a burrow but a challenge, foolishly, on the banks of a flowing waterway, with little cover and few places to flee other than into the water. But even the current would carry him toward the dens of beasts that would feed on Al’ar.

He had built a low fire from minerals he’d dug from the bank, under what the Wolfe-dreamer thought was a leafless tree carved of stone but was something that lived and grew.

The five stopped at the last bit of groundcover and looked long at the guttering fire and the motionless shadow of the one who seemed to have no fear.

They communicated in touches, grasping organs signaling who was to go forward, who was to come from the side, who was to wait until he was immobilized and then deal the killing stroke.

The one who had been chosen leader lifted his grasping organ, hood flaring, about to give the signal.

He came at them from behind, where he’d stalked them from when they left their cave.

The first died as a grasping organ darted into an eye socket, and “blood” oozed, the second as a knee took “her” in the back of the head, snapping the grouped tendons that was an Al’ar spine. The third swung with a club, missed as his target vanished, reappeared out of reach, and the club smashed into the fourth’s chest. The last, the leader, had time to snap out a kick that sent the attacker stumbling.

The two from the cave came at him from either side.

The one Wolfe dreamed he was jumped straight up, turned and both his legs snapped out. He felt the kick land, felt body organs crush, felt death come.

The last turned to flee, but somehow the attacker was in front of him, slits of his eyes burning, fire demanding fuel, and the last one’s spirit was that fuel and there were five young Al’ar sprawled dead, not far from a dying fire and a waterway.

• • •

It was not long after that the Choices were made. Some chose to breed, some chose to accept breeding. The tasks of the future were clear, and each picked the one he’d been called to as his lifework.

He had known forever what his own task would be.

Warrior.

Guardians further tested him, taught him.

Then they gave him a Lumina to hold, and a new name, honoring what he had done in the night, in the desolation.

He was the One Who Fights From Shadows.

There was no greater honor for an Al’ar than to be a warrior, except to be chosen as a Guardian.

• • •

He learned other skills while he refined those of the body. He learned the use of weapons, those that the Wolfe-dreamer could name as knife, gun, missile, others that had no name or image to him.

More important, he learned when not to fight but to flee or to dissemble and lie until the weight lay on his side.

He learned how to use vehicles that let him fly, both in various kinds of atmosphere as well as space.

He was taught how to help a ship transition from one part of the great Al’ar Empire to another.

Finally he was ready.

He was named a Keeper of Order, on the far edges of the Al’ar space. Here he would be in charge of the lives of the lesser beings the Al’ar ruled, beings of many planets and thoughts, but none of real worth.

Wolfe stirred, half woke, muttered in protest, then returned to the “dream.”

The One Who Fights From Shadows knew the codex and ruled firmly, giving all as much life as he thought necessary, and bringing it to an end when the time for that came, as well.

Time passed.

Then the changes began.

Worlds fell out of contact with the parent culture.

Sometimes a handful of ships managed to flee to momentary safety, but as often as not the Al’ar inside them were dead or had twisted minds that could no longer make sense.

Other Al’ar Keepers of Order went into darkness, with no explanation for their death.

Something had come into their galaxy, something strange, something deadly, something unutterably alien.

Wolfe, in his dream, tried to
feel
what that threat was, tried to
see
it, but his thrust was turned aside.

The One Who Fights From Shadows was summoned to a great conference. All of the Al’ar homeworlds were linked together.

They were told the worst.

The Al’ar were doomed.

That which had entered their galaxy would be their destruction.

They could either stand and fight, or flee.

The Guardians had found a way to transition through space-time into another place, a place where they could not, would not be followed.

There was no debate, no reason for discussion. The path was clear.

To gain time, it would be necessary for some Al’ar, the best warriors, the strongest Keepers of Order, to counterattack, to hold back the evil until their people could escape.

The One Who Fought From Shadows knew he was one of the lucky ones and was lifted higher than others with the knowledge.

He was trained again, this time by Guardians, in ways to make his mind, his will harder than any metalloid, sharper than any blade or ray.

Special ships were built for the Keepers who would go out to that final battle, ships that dwarfed the biggest Al’ar battleships, but each crewed by only one being.

These ships had a single purpose, a single enemy.

The One Who Fights From Shadows was in the first group. He leapt from change-point to change-point among the stars, each time knowing he was closer to the unseen enemy.

He came into “real” space from his last vaulting point, and the enemy hung in space before him, a dark cloud blocking the stars it had already killed.

His grasping organs swept over weapons banks, and wave after wave of long-strikers shot forth.

He
felt
them strike home,
felt
the enemy’s agony.

Far behind him, half across the galaxy, he knew the first of his people were preparing to flee to safety.

Then his foe regained strength and reached out, through space, through metal, for him, and took him, held him.

The One Who Fights From Shadows knew a moment, an eternity of red torment, fire, cried out, was no more.

Joshua Wolfe woke, shouting in pain, a dull buzzing in his mind. His arms, legs, and stomach were seared with red welts.

“How was that done?”
Wolfe demanded.

“Fairly simply,”
Jadera said.
“There are records of events. We know you possess a Lumina and have become skilled in its use. We used one of our own as a link and gave you the life of the honored one who previously bore your name.”

Joshua grimaced, caught a reflection of himself in a polished wall panel, looked away. His eyes were deeply shadowed, his newly young countenance pallid from the night’s “dream.”

“So you — the Al’ar — were driven from your own universe into this one?”

“Exactly.”

“And now this … thing, whatever it is, is in our own space-time?”

“Not yet. But it threatens.”

“What is it? I could not determine.”

“We did not permit you to see. Now we shall. Follow me.”

“May I accompany you?”
Taen asked.