Chapter 4
THE LEGEND OF QU'U (continued)
with the valley of lost souls left behing, the
hero made his way upward on the perilous
stair. the stair was a trecherous path,
sometimes no more than a set of handholds [The Perilous Stair]
barely wide enough to accomodate his talons;
elsewhere there were places he could stand
and evenn walk forward and upward. beneath the
talons of his feet, he was chilled by the indigo
rock of the icewall.
after qu'u had climbed some distance, he
paused to rest. the winds tore at his wings and
threatened to pull him away from the stair,
and the chill of the plain of despite made his [Winds of Despite]
body shiver and his talons clench. his chya
remained sheathed: there were no enemies to
fight, and he needed talons on both hands and
feet to maintain his purchase.
though it pained him to do so, qu'u flew the path
of his quest: from the first appearance of
the servant of qu'u, to the journey with his
friend hyos to the forest sanctuary, to the
entrance to the plain of despite. as he rested,
he wondered if he could go on. [Flying the Path]
. . . even through the enccounter with anga'e'ren,
he remembered his one true enemy: the sorcerer
whose fortress lay far above, hidden in the
shrouding fog.
below him, on the plain of despite, the war
continued between the contending factions of the
esga'uyal.
sometimes the fog parted, allowing him to
view the battles: there were scenes of violence
that far exceeded the battles between e'yen
and their enemies in u'hera.
Years of business partnership with Pyotr Ngo had made Dan McReynolds intimately aware of his friend's moods, particularly the bad ones. Without a word being exchanged, he could read the expression on Pyotr's face as the other man stood at the engineering station.
I don't want to be here, either, Dan thought. Pyotr could read that response, too, but it didn't change anything.
Fair Damsel was twenty seconds from jump transition. Their destination was Corcyra System, a wealthy colony-world that was probably only a few years from buying its own Class One status as a full member of the Solar Empire; it made the finest crystal anywhere, the sort that graced wardroom tables of the best-furnished starships in the Imperial Fleet. The emperor drank his best vintages from Corcyran goblets.
One jump from Adrianople; one jump from Tamarind; one jump from Cicero—Fair Damsel was horribly, dangerously, exposed to an enemy that might take any of those places. Cicero was already theirs, and there might be a battle for Adrianople anytime.
It made sense to go there: for Pappenheim and Tilly at least, and for the little carrier Bay of Biscay . . . But, for Dan's ship, and fellow merchanters Reese and Oregon, it was the last place they wanted to go. Still, orders were orders.
Dan glanced at the chrono, which had already counted below ten seconds. Damsel's defensive fields, such as they were, and her meager weaponry, were ready to go online directly after transition.
He nodded to Ray Li, sitting at the helm. Pyotr continued to scowl at the utterdark in the forward screen, waiting for the silver streams that accompanied transition from jump.
"All right, everyone," Dan said. "Here we go."
The pilot's board sprang to life as the darkness faded and stars appeared. Pappenheim appeared first, about two thousand kilometers downrange; it was two minutes ahead of the Fair Damsel.
"Oh, crap," Ray said. "Jump-echoes. Big ones."
"What's our status?" Dan asked, watching the other ships register on the board. It showed four enemy IDs, a third of the way around the circumference of the system.
"Fields up, weapons online. Looks like everyone's here." Ray highlighted the icons for Pappenheim and the other five ships under Maartens' command.
"What are the bogeys doing?"
Ray didn't answer right away. As Dan watched, two of the IDs vanished, and in short order the third and fourth ones did as well.
"They left."
"They were on their way to transition?"
"Looks like."
"Comm the flag. We register four bogeys headed outsystem. What are your orders? Fair Damsel sends."
The message went out to Pappenheim. Dan drummed his fingers on the arm of the pilot's seat. He was a few years out of starship command, but old habits died hard; he thought about what he'd do if he were sitting in Maartens' chair.
Jump is a tricky business. It would've been possible for the bad guys to abort their jump if they'd noticed the arrival of the Imperial ships; but if they didn't notice, or didn't care, a jump outsystem would send them to their destination—and it would be a few days, at least, before they, or anyone they'd tell, would return.
Given the firepower of this little squadron, Dan would want to be far gone by that time. So—whatever they were here to do, they'd better do it damned quickly or plan on getting out now.
"Scan for hostiles in the system," Dan said.
"We're not registering anything here—friend or enemy," Ray said. "Nobody here but us."
"What about system defense?"
"Nothing." Ray spun in his chair to face Dan. "No defense boats, no traffic control. Nothing on civilian or merchanter frequencies, either."
That statement echoed for a moment on Fair Damsel's bridge. Corcyra was an industrial world with lots of commercial traffic. A quick comp check showed the population at a bit under two million.
The comm board signaled. "Incoming from Pappenheim," Pyotr said, looking at the board. "We're ordered to proceed into the inner system."
Pyotr Ngo's face was pale and drawn as he turned to face Dan, looking away from the display that showed telemetry scans of Corcyra's changing surface. Dan was unaccustomed to seeing his exec so upset; the pilot's board was already indicating that Maartens expected his report.
"Pyotr?"
"The world doesn't match the Grand Survey data at all, Dan. I mean, we're not equipped like an Imperial starship, but it's pretty damn clear that something . . . extraordinary has happened down there."
"I'll ask you what Captain Maartens is going to ask me: What do you mean, 'extraordinary'?"
"I mean that there's considerable atmospheric activity—the sort you'd associate with explosions or firestorms. All comm frequencies are jammed. But that's small-scale compared to the map data. It's almost as if the continents have changed."
Dan looked at the board. "Corcyra Four does have a high degree of vulcanism, so there are earthquakes and volcanoes. Could there have been some sort of . . . I don't know . . . tectonic event?"
"Not in this timescale. The Imperial Grand Survey mapped Corcyra most recently twenty years ago. Tectonic plates don't shift more than a few centimeters in twenty years even on a world as unstable as this one. What's more, there were almost two million people living on this world. Surely they'd have noticed if their continents were moving at high speeds . . ."
"Is there any sign of them?"
"Any sign of the people?" Pyotr looked down at the deck. "Nothing. It's as if they were never there."
"That's impossible. There must be something, some evidence—"
"Here." Pyotr pointed to the displays as Dan leaned over his station. "Look for yourself."
Ten minutes later, when Dan made his report to Maartens, he had to admit the same.
"Nothing. Look at the scans, Captain: It's a wasteland down there."
"I spent some time in Exploratory, McReynolds, did I ever tell you that?" A vague outline of Pappenheim's ready-room showed near Maartens' holo, sitting in an empty area of Fair Damsel's bridge. Maartens sat leaning back, his face fairly impassive. "Five or six years ago I did a tour outside the Empire with the Grand Survey. Corcyra was an analysis site for Survey data; I must have visited here at least ten times.
"There were labs, factories, homes, restaurants, bars . . . This was a living world, McReynolds. I remember it. A hundred years ago, people with our jobs saw what happened when the zor attacked human worlds: they burned, they bombed, they killed people. But they left something behind: foundations of buildings, ruined highways, corpses . . .
"They left evidence, McReynolds. But this isn't anything like what the zor did. We probably watched the bastards jumping out of here.
"Let's set aside the question of how, since it'll take intel and tech analysis to determine the answer. What about why?"
"You want my opinion." Dan McReynolds didn't move, holding his commander's eye. But inside, he felt himself squirming, trying to decide what the older man was getting at.
"Sure," Maartens answered. "Favor me with your opinion."
"Well . . . First, by obliterating every visible trace of what caused this destruction, and returning the world to something like its natural state, they've made it more difficult for us to fight back."
"Makes sense." Maartens noted something on a comp in front of him. "What else?"
"The zor were more interested in human deaths than in destroying equipment; they went after civilian targets whenever they had the chance. During the wars we even scavenged from places like Alya and Pergamum. There's nothing here left behind to scavenge. But I don't really think that's the reason this was done, sir."
"All right, McReynolds. Why was this done?"
Dan folded his hands in his lap and took a deep breath. "They mean to scare us, Captain. They want us to know that they can do this."
"But what—?"
"Think of it, sir." Dan let his gaze fall to the physical map of the world, rotating slowly on the pilot's board in front of him. It showed no cities, no roads, no structures of any kind. "That's Corcyra down there, but it could be New Chicago, or Mothaliah, or Shipley, or Dieron. Or Terra.
"The enemy wants us to know they can destroy us, completely and utterly—as if we had never been. That's the sort of fear they want us to carry around."
The shuttle began to settle slowly toward the tarmac. The ocean stretched, blue and pristine, occasionally dotted with whitecaps, for as far as he could see beyond the rim of Molokai. Off to his left he could just make out the long stretch of Shipwreck Beach on Lanai; while through the window he could pick out the hundred-story arcologies—self-contained cities of a hundred thousand or more—along Hanauma Bay on Oahu. Beyond Hanauma was Diamond Head, the dormant volcanic crater that formed the Imperial Palace enclosure.
Randall Boyd hadn't made many visits to the Imperial presence and hadn't been here since the message from High Lord Ke'erl HeYen revealing the dark path to the Solar Emperor. This time, he was sure, his summons to the emperor's presence was likely due to the performance of the High Lord on broadcast 3-V. The Imperial ambassador on Zor'a had been called in and given a briefing on the High Lord's medical condition but the High Chamberlain, who had given the briefing, had been carefully and deliberately vague about the actual pronouncements.
The reason for this was simple. Once it reached diplomatic ears on Zor'a, rumors would fly in all directions. Obviously the emperor believed there was more to the story and that it could be kept under wraps somehow here on Oahu. The High Chamberlain's instructions on the point had been succinct and vague: "Tell the emperor all that he is able to comprehend." It was about what Boyd would have expected from ha T'te'e.
The overhead light went off, indicating that the shuttle was secure. He stood and moved toward the exit, briefcase in hand.
As Boyd floated toward the tarmac he was struck with the balmy, humid air of Hawaii. It was a marked change from the damp and chilly rainstorm he had left behind in Genéve. At the bottom, Mya'ar HeChra, the High Lord's esGyu'u (literally "talon"; but, in translation, "ambassador") to the court of the emperor, was waiting for him.
"My old friend," Boyd said, followed by a ritual greeting phrase in the Highspeech. Mya'ar extended taloned hands to grasp Boyd's forearms.
"Good health to you, se Randall," Mya'ar replied. They began to walk across the tarmac toward the domed entrance to the Imperial enclosure.
"So, se Mya'ar. Bring me up-to-date."
"Ah." The zor let his wings flutter a bit. "As you can well imagine, the emperor is most disturbed by the remarks of the High Lord, and his . . ."
" . . . indiscretions."
"I suppose you might call them that, yes. The broadcast was closely scrutinized and a close advisor to the Throne has made a rather astute observation: that se Sergei was unarmed when he returned to the High Nest. The explanation of the High Chamberlain was rather obtuse, at least by naZora'i standards. I am not sure why, but I expect ha T'te'e has his reasons. Your visit to Genéve and your summons to the emperor's presence will only compound the uproar."
Randall smiled; Mya'ar had not meant it to sound so much like an accusation. "It didn't seem like the sort of thing best broadcast for anyone to overhear. What's more, I don't think ha T'te'e cares very much about what sort of uproar he causes."
"If the emperor receives you in open court, se Randall, and begins asking questions, the answers will be on the 'net in a few sixty-fourths of a sun.
"I do not expect the emperor to do this, but I am sure you will be interrogated just as I was. I was questioned at length about se Commodore Laperriere, si Commander HeYen and the Cicero matter. I had little to report and no specific orders regarding the path I should fly. I assume you are better informed."
"I have the whole story," Boyd said, patting his briefcase.
"What will you tell them? The emperor will ask you to reveal everything, since you are, after all, a human first and a servant of the High Nest second." Mya'ar's wings changed configuration, revealing a note of irony in his comment.
Boyd smiled. "They will not like what they hear."
"Will that change your story, my friend?"
"No, I don't think so. Someone's got to tell the emperor what's going on; that's why there's an envoy."
"And an esGyu'u."
"And an esGyu'u," Randall agreed.
The lift brought them down to a large sunroom set into the cliffs of Diamond Head. The room was constructed on a gentle curve, sweeping over several dozen meters, and was tiled in a cream-colored marble. The permaglas windows gave a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean. The rays of afternoon sun honeyed the tile and cast a long shadow from the man waiting to receive them.
"hi Emperor," Mya'ar said, inclining his head.
"Your Highness," Randall added. He glanced beyond the emperor; there were several servants hovering at a respectful distance, but a small glowing pin on the emperor's lapel indicated that a privacy shield was active—sound and vision were blurred beyond a few meters.
It meant the emperor was concerned about the subject to be discussed, and that he had absolute trust in the two people with whom he would be discussing it. Both facts sent a message.
"So good of you to join me," the emperor said at last. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to speak with you recently."
"I thank Your Highness for his time," Boyd replied.
"I understand that there is some explanation for the incident we recently witnessed at A'alu Spaceport," the emperor said, directly to the point. "Perhaps you can elucidate."
"I'm . . . not sure where to begin, sire."
"We are at war, young man, and the High Nest is our ally . . . I presume?"
"Very much so, Your Highness. We have a common enemy."
"The . . . esGa'uYal, I suppose you would say."
"The aliens, sire. They are one and the same."
"And they have the zor sword of state?"
"Yes, sire, they do."
"Ah. Now we progress." The emperor looked out across the ocean. The sun dappled his features. "I assume that the Gyaryu'har—Mr. Torrijos—is in his present condition because of the absence of this talisman?"
"That is correct, sire."
"And it was taken while he was at Cicero?"
"Yes, Your Highness, when the aliens took control of Cicero Down."
The emperor turned and fixed Boyd with a glance, a frown deepening on his face. "Then answer me this, Envoy. I am aware that Torrijos was sent to Cicero—'placed upon the dark path,' I believe the High Lord said at the time—because of a dream. But if Torrijos is important to the High Nest and the sword is important to Torrijos, then why in the hell was it left in harm's way long enough for it to be actually captured? It doesn't make any sense to me. I am ready for my explanation now."
Boyd took a breath and considered the answer he would give. He had known this question would be posed; it was a matter of deciding how he would respond.
"The High Nest chose to send the Gyaryu'har to Cicero precisely so this would happen. It was expecting that the sword would be taken, sire—indeed, the High Nest did not expect se Sergei to survive at all."
"They sent him to die?"
"He is a warrior, Your Highness."
"He is in a coma, Envoy. This entire matter is insane. It's some part of an insane plan from an insane High Lord."
"I wish it were that simple, Your Highness."
The emperor turned away from the High Nest envoy to look at the zor who shared the private interview. Mya'ar stood unmoving on the perch.
"Enlighten me."
"Insane or not, Your Highness, the High Lord Ke'erl knew with certainty that there was grave and imminent danger. It was felt there was no one who would accept this information . . . considering its source."
"I have . . . read the reports of the commander at Cicero, and reviewed the Admiralty investigation. I believe this information has been released to the Envoy's Office and to the High Chamberlain."
Boyd nodded in agreement.
"Does all of this correspond to the knowledge that the High Lord possesses?"
"It confirms a number of things, sire. It portrays the aliens as inimical, both to mankind and to the People. It shows them to be powerful Sensitives with abilities whose strength and scope far outweigh ours—they can portray or perhaps even assume the form of other beings. There's every reason to believe this has been done already."
"Meaning—"
"There might be aliens disguised as humans or zor already within the Empire. Perhaps even here at court or in the High Nest. There is no way to know."
The emperor paled at that statement, as if the full understanding of its meaning had just descended upon him.
"Already."
"The High Chamberlain believes that to be the case, sire. If the infiltration of Cicero had not been accidentally discovered, this might never have even been suspected."
"We are already lost," the emperor said softly.
"Not if Qu'u returns," Mya'ar interjected. It was the first comment he had made during the entire conversation, and it caused both the emperor and the envoy to look at him.
"I assume," the emperor said, after a moment, to Boyd without looking away from the zor, "that you understand what he means."
"The hero who will recover the sword placed in the possession of the aliens is the only hope for both races. It is why the sword was allowed to be captured: The High Lord believed that circumstances would call forth a new hero, a new Qu'u."
"And has this happened?"
"The High Nest is satisfied that it has, sire," Boyd said.
"Who would this 'hero' be?"
Boyd told him; and as the emperor sat and listened, he seemed overwhelmed by the complexity of the thing. The envoy, for his part, felt it necessary to clarify the process by which the choice had come to pass. Boyd thought that hearing a description of the sequence of events from the zor point of view must seem surreal; it was as if the emperor's hold on the whole situation had been uprooted and set adrift, with nothing to hang on to. Gambling the entire Empire as well as the People on a single toss was no less unnerving, especially since the emperor himself had no consent in, and no control over, the outcome.
Six hours later, a high-priority shuttle arrived at Honolulu Port from halfway around the globe. It was met by a 'copter at a private pad, already mostly occupied by a human and a rashk. The rashk, a lizard with six limbs, was wearing something that looked like a tent-sized purple silk bathrobe with the Imperial Intelligence emblem over the breast; he spread across two normal human-sized seats and had to incline his head to fit his two-meter-high frame into the compartment.
After the briefest of greetings, the prime minister—who had come all the way from Genéve at his emperor's summons— boarded the 'copter, which took off and flew toward the 'Iolani Palace in central Honolulu, a few flying-minutes away.
"Thank you for responding so quickly, Ahmad," the prime minister said, when the 'copter was in the air. "I'd rather have you here in person than just on comm."
"It's blind luck." The director of Imperial Intelligence, a portly, middle-aged man, was not as familiar a face as the prime minister—most citizens on the street wouldn't have picked him out of a crowd of Imperial bureaucrats. Which was, of course, just as he wanted it. "If M'm'e'e Sha'kan and I weren't already in New Los Angeles instead of out at Langley, David, comm is all you'd have gotten."
The rashk, M'm'e'e Sha'kan, said nothing but sat stolidly, his four arms slowly weaving some pattern. In fact, he seemed to be asleep, head bent toward his chest—except that his middle eye was cracked slightly open, as if following the conversation.
"I think it'll be best for us to brief the emperor together."
"Meaning you'd be just as happy not to do it alone."
The prime minister didn't answer.
"By the way, David, I agree. Do you know what the representatives of the High Nest had to say to the emperor?"
"It was a private conversation." The prime minister folded his hands and looked out across the Pacific Ocean at the glorious sunset. Beats the hell out of the sunsets over Lac Lèman, he thought.
"My question remains."
"Yes, of course I know. It told us very little we don't already know—the High Nest arranged for the sword to be taken away, but has sent the Cicero commander to retrieve it."
"An unlikely choice," the director said.
"'Of the ocean, a wave a part only is,'" rumbled the rashk. Both men turned to look at him.
"Rashk proverb," the director explained.
"Meaning—"
"Meaning is," M'm'e'e Sha'kan said, stopping the movement of his arms, "that we not the entire pattern perceive can says not that there no pattern is. For zor People, water deep is, ocean wide is." Two of his arms landed with a slap on his thighs, muffled through his hydrating robe.
"Still," the director said, "we've been working on this since Cicero was evacuated. It's clear that the zor have an end in mind—but we just can't see what it is."
"His Highness won't be happy with that answer."
"David, no one knows how the zor think. They—"
"Zor know, how think zor," M'm'e'e Sha'kan said. "Time it is, them to ask."
"The emperor asked them," the prime minister said, turning on the rashk. "Do you know what they said about our commodore? 'She climbs the Perilous Stair.' What in hell does that mean?"
"In legend—" M'm'e'e began, but the prime minister held up his hand. Both of the rashk's left hands rose to mimic the gesture.
"No," the prime minister said. The rashk's pairs of arms began to move in weaving patterns again. "In the real world," the prime minister continued, "they know where she is—where is it?"
"Some data available is," the rashk answered quietly.
"Oh?"
"We know that Laperriere was aboard Crossover Station," the director said, "and that her exec—"
"Hyos," M'm'e'e interjected.
"Ch'k'te HeYen," the director said, frowning. "Her exec was killed aboard the station and Commodore Laperriere left somehow. She was clearly not afterward aboard the merchanter that took her there."
"And we know that because—"
"Because, David, that ship has been recalled to active service and is part of Admiral Hsien's command. Laperriere is not aboard."
"Has anyone thought to ask the captain of this merchanter what happened?"
"I don't believe anyone in Hsien's command is aware of Laperriere. She and HeYen boarded the ship under assumed names."
"A human and a zor traveling together might attract some attention, you'd think," the prime minister said. He looked out the 'copter's window; they were just crossing the Nimitz gevway by Aloha Tower—'Iolani Palace was not far away.
"They were both gone by the time this ship was called to service. Laperriere is gone—and honestly, no one knows where she is."
"The emperor isn't going to like that answer, either."
The 'Iolani Palace was just ahead; the 'copter was beginning its descent toward the pad on the roof.
"Then we'll have to come up with some more questions," the director said.
M'm'e'e Sha'kan said nothing, but merely waved his arms in pairs, his face reflecting the last light of day.
Two hundred and fifty parsecs away, the High Lord felt the configuration of the Plain of Despite begin to resolve into a new pattern.
As he dreamed, the tiny shred of self that had not been consumed by the madness of knowledge fought to hold on, talons extended, wings forming the Stance of Defiant Anger. The esGa'uYal were beginning to stir.