Chapter 5
THE LEGEND OF QU'U (continued)
step by step and one clawhold over another, the
lone hero qu'u climbed the last several
sixty-fours of wingspans, coming at last in [Cloak Against Despite]
sight of the fortress of despite. lightnings
cascaded across the turrets, highlighting the
profile of the battlements with fiery light.
qu'u did not believe that he approached [Eyes of esGa'u]
unnoticed. the encounter with enga'e'ren had
convinced him that servants of the deceiver were
everywhere in the plain of despite.
indeed, he thought to himself. how can i hope to
prevail if despite can command so many allies?
what will confront me now?
The esGa'uYal are beginning to stir, the voice in Jackie's mind said, as she drifted between sleeping and waking.
"I don't want to hear it," she said, and burrowed farther beneath the blanket. Her voice seemed to echo across a great distance, as if she were on the top of a high mountain. The words were broken apart and carried away by the wind . . .
The wind blew around her, whistling through the holes in her cloak where, if she were one of the People, her wings would have gone. From where she stood she could see the ghoulish shadows of the rocky, icy Plain far below. The huge mass of the Fortress of Despite towered above her; the glow of her chya seemed almost feeble by comparison. Ch'k'te, his ethereal, almost transparent body hunched against the extreme cold, and Th'an'ya, her aura glowing faintly blue, stood by, as if waiting for Jackie to take action.
"We have come so far, se Jackie," Th'an'ya said over the sound of the wind, though she did not seem to be raising her voice. "You must complete the legend."
It was incongruous: Jackie knew that on the Perilous Stair, Qu'u was alone—in the legend, he spoke of being the "lone hero."
"I must?" She held up her chya and even Th'an'ya stepped back. "We have gone through all kinds of hell for that damned sword. I have followed my instincts and my abilities; I have been as close to Qu'u as I could be: I have faced demons and shadows. I have climbed the Perilous Stair and now you're telling me that I have to . . . I have to 'transcend the Outer Peace'? I've come all this way to commit suicide?"
"In the legend," Ch'k'te said, the wind almost taking his voice away, "Qu'u knows that it is his duty to confront esGa'u the sorcerer and take the gyaryu from the Fortress." He gestured toward the castle. "It is why we are here. esLiHeYar, se Jackie."
"If we're correct," she heard herself say, "we're really standing outside the fortress of the leader of the aliens, Ch'k'te. She'll drop us back into reality, whatever the hell that means. Then she'll rip my head off.
"You're already dead and Th'an'ya is no more than a hsi-image in my mind, so you two have nothing to worry about. Qu'u was made immortal by the Lord esLi because he was willing to let esGa'u rip his head off. I have no guarantee that the Lord esLi will do the same for me."
Th'an'ya's sharp intake of breath was audible even above the storm.
Keeping the Fortress visible in the corner of her eye, Jackie made her way along the ledge to Th'an'ya's glowing form. "What is it, Th'an'ya? Does my lack of faith disturb you? Did you think that searching for the gyaryu would truly transform me somehow? I may be the heir of Qu'u, but I am not Qu'u himself. I may serve the People in this quest, but I am not one of the People. I cannot be one.
"I will not walk in there and destroy myself for no purpose. One of the People might be willing to do that, but I am not."
As the three figures watched, the lightning illuminated the great Fortress in pale light, and it seemed in that moment to resemble nothing less than a huge caricature of the aliens she had met at Crossover and at Cicero. As she looked at it, unable to turn away, she saw the great hinged doors of the tower opening, revealing a ghastly cerulean light that surrounded—
The broken hilt of Ch'k'te's chya was in her hand and held up in front of her as she sat bolt upright in her bed, with no sound but the regular crooning of the ship's systems and the beating of her own heart.
She looked around the room, viewing the scene as if for the first time, like some sort of 3-V documentary. She kicked the bedcovers away from her feet and swung her legs over the side of the sleeping-pallet, keeping the hilt at the ready.
Nothing happened. Slowly, she let her mind concentrate on the dream that still echoed in her mind.
"Ch'k'te," she said, and then cursed, placing the vivid image of her friend crouching in the storm beside the terrible sight of his corpse on the deck at Crossover. For just a moment, she felt the slightest additional warmth from the grip of the chya but then it was gone.
She laid it on the bed beside her and quickly dressed, discarding the idea of further sleep. As she was pulling on a boot she became aware of someone else in the room and looked up to see Th'an'ya watching her.
"You don't even come when I call now. You just appear."
"I come when I am called," she answered.
"But I—"
"I come when I am called." Th'an'ya perched on a low stool nearby. "The servants of Despite are stirring, and all-out war is not far away. This part of our journey, also, is nearing its end; the gyaryu is very close."
"We're still in jump."
"At the moment, we are. The ship's chronometer indicates that we have less than half a sun before we emerge."
"Where?"
"Near the top of the Perilous Stair, se Jackie."
Th'an'ya said it matter-of-factly, though Jackie knew that she must have shared the dream. She shrugged and pulled on the other boot and then stood up, absently tucking the chya-hilt into her belt. Her mouth felt as if she'd swallowed a liter of polymer lubricant and her head still echoed with the wind from her dream.
"I wouldn't go up to the Fortress of Despite in the dream, Th'an'ya. I refused, even though you and Ch'k'te—" Her voice wavered for a moment. "Even though you and Ch'k'te told me that I must. What does it mean? Will I be unable to complete this quest after all of this preparation?"
"No one can answer that question, not even you. It is therefore pointless even to ask it at this stage."
"Great." She walked past Th'an'ya's image into the main compartment, glancing at the forward screen for a moment. It displayed anGa'e'ren: the utterdark of jump, with no features or interruptions. "So now I'm even denied access to self-doubt."
She ordered something to drink from the autokitchen and turned to the galley table to sit down. Th'an'ya was already perched opposite, her wings held in a position that denoted a slight confusion.
"What's the matter?" she asked the zor. "Can't read my wings?"
"Your mood is difficult to understand. It is clear that there is great danger approaching, scarcely hours away, yet your mind does not appear to be focused on the quest."
Jackie looked up, half smiling. "I think even Ch'k'te would laugh to hear you carp like that. I've read the legends. From what I can see, the great hero Qu'u didn't spend a lot of time 'focusing on the quest.' He and his loyal companions just bumbled around like artha in the mist, waiting for the next test of their courage or strength, until they found themselves divinely guided to the object of their travels.
"This time it's different somehow because I have this cryptic pattern to follow. 'What are we doing?' I ask. 'Going to the Plain of Despite to recover the gyaryu,' you answer. 'How do we get there?' 'We go to the Center.' Then, once we do that and I manage to defeat the guardian of the Stair at the mere cost of the only living being I can completely trust, I am mysteriously able to escape onto the next talon of my quest, the path neatly laid out for me. I hurtle forward, waiting for the next test of my courage or strength, until I find myself divinely guided . . .
"Beginning to get the idea? I mean, really, Th'an'ya. I'm angry, I'm depressed, I'm full of self-doubt. I'm not sleeping well, I feel like I have a hell of a hangover, and I don't know whether I'll even know what to do when the time comes. I may not even know it if it hits me over the head. As helpful as you've been to me, you still talk in riddles. I don't know if I completely understand them.
"How in esLi's name am I supposed to get focused? I don't have an 'Inner Peace' to concentrate on, wings to speak with . . . I don't even have a damn chya." She took the broken sword from her belt and tossed it onto the table—finely hewn metal clattering on plastic in the silence—as Jackie rested her chin on her folded hands and looked up at Th'an'ya's image.
You will know, the voice within her mind said.
"All right," she said, standing up suddenly and pushing her seat back. "I've had just about enough of that, too."
Th'an'ya backed away slightly, her wings arranged in a defensive posture.
"While we're being so blasted honest, it's about time the origin of that voice revealed itself." She strode out of the kitchen area into the main cabin and held her arms wide. She turned around and faced away from the forward screen. "Come on. If Th'an'ya can show herself, so can you."
Th'an'ya faded into existence beside her. "The voice is not a hsi-image within your mind, as I am," she said softly.
"What is it, then?"
"Concentrate," Th'an'ya answered. It was really no answer at all.
Jackie looked from her to the blank wall and then back again, as if considering the word, and what she meant by it.
Jackie closed her eyes, and let her arms fall to her sides. All right, then, she thought. Whoever you are, whatever you are, I'm listening. I've been listening since you first spoke to me at Cicero, when Bryan Noyes tried to take me apart.
Show yourself. Man or zor, rashk, otran or alien, I want to see you now.
She heard a sharp intake of breath beside her. Slowly she opened her eyes to look at the blank wall. An image hovered in midair. It was not a person but rather an object: one she had seen before, stretched across the lap of an old, old man visiting her in her quarters at Cicero.
It hung point-down, its hilt at about the level of her forehead. It was black like a piece of obsidian, and chased with hRni'i too delicate and too faint to read from several meters away, but it glowed with an inner light that seemed to highlight the decorations and drown out the internal illumination of the ship's compartment. The image of the gyaryu was not completely opaque: She could make out the far wall through it, as if it were a hologram projected from some distant location.
She took a step forward and then another and another, until it was at arm's length: She could reach out and touch the image if she wished but she didn't dare, fearing that it might suddenly vanish.
It was quiet other than the sounds of the ship. The image of the sword hovered like a taunt; then it faded away entirely. She waved her hand in the space where it had been, but it had left nothing behind.
Jackie slumped into a seat and ran a hand through her hair.
"It's the sword," she said to herself. "The voice has been coming from the sword itself—ever since Cicero. Ever—since—Cicero." She balled her fists. "Now, the ten-thousand-credit question: Did the High Nest know this would happen, too?"
Th'an'ya did not answer. Jackie stood and walked slowly to her image, which stood quietly in place, her hand gripping the polished wood staff, her wings raised politely.
"Tell me you knew about this, too."
"I did not," Th'an'ya answered. "We did not foresee that the gyaryu itself would communicate with you. When you revealed that a voice was speaking with you—one well versed in our culture—I thought—I assumed—"
"esLi."
" . . . Yes, se Jackie. I thought that you might be receiving messages from the Lord of the Golden Circle, and I thought . . ."
Jackie turned away from Th'an'ya and ran a hand through her hair again. "I'm walking into the Fortress of Despite, Th'an'ya. I've read and studied what we know about the alien that used to drive this rig. There is no chance that I can replace him. It. Whatever."
"There is no choice, se Jackie. If you can convince others that you are R'se—"
"And what's the chance of that?" She turned to face Th'an'ya again. "R'se was . . . Let me see: a 'Deathguard.' That rated him pretty high up in the hierarchy. He was some kind of independent operative, reporting directly to the High Queen."
"Great Queen."
"Great Queen." Jackie corrected herself. "R'se had come to Crossover to get Qu'u. To get me, except that it thought Ch'k'te was Qu'u. After all, he was the Sensitive, and he was one of the People." She picked up the chya-hilt from the table and looked at it as if she'd never seen it before. "We're betting the entire future of both races on the thin hope that R'se wasn't able to fire off some sort of message. Because if he did, there'll be a welcoming committee for me when this bucket comes out of jump. If we're wrong, I'm dead, or worse. And so are you." She pointed at Th'an'ya's image; her zor companion's wings rose slightly in alarm. "This is a hell of a chance you're taking, unless you know something you haven't told me."
Th'an'ya did not answer.
"Damn it—you do know something."
"No," Th'an'ya answered. "I do not know anything that is pertinent to this discussion. I believe that esLi protects us, se Jackie, and His talons have guided our path thus far. He would not have placed your foot upon the Perilous Stair without a reasonable chance of success against the Lord of Despite."
"Have faith, you say. Very comforting. I'm betting my life on your faith."
"I have already bet my life on it, se Jackie. You need not remind me of the stakes. Recall what you were told in Ur'ta leHssa: Once you have set your foot upon the Perilous Stair, there is no way to turn back. When this vessel reaches its destination, you must take the role that circumstances give you."
"Whether I want it or not."
"Most certainly. I will be here to help you as long as I can."
"Until . . ."
Th'an'ya looked past Jackie to the empty wall where the image of the gyaryu had been. "Until the will of esLi determines otherwise. I cannot see the end of this flight, se Jackie."
A comm-squirt is transmitted using essentially the same technology that permits ships to travel over interstellar distances: The data packet is transmitted across normal-space and then is transitioned to jump in a given direction for a given amount of time, after which it emerges at its destination. Since its mass is effectively zero, the speed of transmission is significantly higher than that of a jump-capable vessel.
The comm-packet that Commodore Jonathan Durant sent out from Adrianople was aimed at Denneva, the closest Imperial naval base. While there was no way to reach Admiral Hsien in jump, the warning of events at Adrianople should have been enough to bring reinforcements to relieve the base from the aliens.
Except that the squirt never left Adrianople System. Disrupted, dispersed and deserialized, it dissipated into interstellar space and was never launched into jump at all.
Gibraltar emerged into normal-space just a few milliseconds ahead of the rest of Admiral Hsien's command. It was not a lack of precision—jumps were timed down to the microsecond, after all—it was a desire on the part of Gibraltar's commander, Dame Alexandra Quinn, to always be leading when she carried the admiral's flag.
Admiral César Hsien stood motionless on the bridge, watching the pilot's board record the incoming vessels and register the transponder codes of ships already in Adrianople System.
"Have we received clearing from traffic control?"
"It's just coming in now, Admiral," Captain Quinn said.
"Fine. Keep me informed," he said, walking into his ready-room. There was no need to supervise Gibraltar's progress into the gravity well; the officers and crew could handle the mundane details while he reviewed reports.
Hsien often found himself pausing and imagining the universe as he had first seen it as a young ensign fifty years ago, when his honored grandfather was still making speeches in the Imperial Assembly. Grandfather Tomas had been a bit shocked but still mostly pleased to have a scion of his family attend the Naval Academy; he would have been duly impressed that young César had risen to the rank of admiral.
For the admiral's part, he believed he'd grown accustomed to it but had never really lost the wonder associated with travel among the stars.
He could see it now as he laid down his stylus and closed his eyes: the long streamers of silver resolving themselves into points of starry light, the transponder racing to catch up with the insystem traffic, the navigation station giving location while helm got control, the ship raising its defensive fields as a precaution against some surprise attack lurking near the jump point—
His reverie was interrupted by a comm signal. He opened his eyes and said, "Yes?"
"Incoming comm from Adrianople Starbase, Admiral. Commodore Durant."
"What does he want? We've been cleared to enter the gravity well, correct?"
"We have, Admiral. The commodore did not give a reason for his comm."
"Very well," Hsien said. "Put him through." He gestured to the ready-room table and displayed a small version of the pilot's board over it; to its right, a holo faded into view, showing the command bridge of the starbase. Jonathan Durant sat in his chair—a bit nervous, Hsien thought to himself. He didn't know Durant well. Couldn't be afraid of an admiral, now, could he?
"Durant," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm just checking in, sir," Durant answered. Behind him, officers moved to and fro, attending to the business of the base. "I hope your jump was uneventful."
"On time and precise, Commodore. Fair winds and calm seas." None of that applied, of course—it was airy metaphor.
"Good. Glad to hear it, sir. I . . . assume that all of your command has arrived within Adrianople System as well."
Hsien looked irritably from Durant to the pilot's-board display. Gibraltar and her seven sister-ships were all clustered in formation, headed into the gravity well; and there was another marker from a ship that had just recently transited from jump. The transponder code marked it as a zor ship, which struck Hsien as strange.
He leaned forward to comm the bridge of the Gibraltar to ask about it; but as he did so, his eyes traveled across the display to notice two other ships boosting toward the position of his squadron.
"Durant," he began to say, as he noticed the mass signatures and indicated sizes of the vessels—bigger than anything in his command; indeed bigger than anything he'd ever seen before—when, all of a sudden, the strangest feeling came over him.
The room seemed more dimly lit than he liked. The chair itself was uncomfortable, forcing him to sit upright, a posture to which he was unaccustomed.
The squareness of the hatchway doors struck him next. Rather than being round and smooth, worn from the passage of countless bodies, they were angular and much bigger than they needed to be; indeed, the entire chamber was large, with altogether too much room for a single . . . a single—
A single individual, he felt himself prompting. But the admiral, raised on the huge empty grasslands of western Canada on Earth's North American continent, was disturbed by the images coming forth in his mind: They consisted of many bodies rubbing close together in the narrow confines of a single chamber, one chamber among thousands, all of them sharing each other's workspace and yet cooperating harmoniously because they shared each other's surface thoughts—
Oh
—In comparison, his mind seemed to reel at the idea of such open expanse under a dim, cold yellow sun, though the idea of Alberta's sunny plains had always been comforting to him while traveling deep in space—
Oh my
—And the isolation of his mind from the hundreds of others aboard the Gibraltar and elsewhere in the fleet made him suddenly lonely and afraid, even though the sharing of minds never seemed to have been a priority before—
Oh my God Oh my God Oh
We are here, Admiral Hsien, a voice hissed in his mind; and he felt powerless to reply. We have need of your primitive equipment for information. We are prepared to terminate you all . . . (Actually, his mind reported calmly, the word "terminate" seemed to imply the concept of feeding to the young, usually while still alive.) . . . if you oppose us, and to treat you with at least minimal respect if you cooperate. Choose now, Admiral Hsien.
He reached to gesture at the comm but found that he could not move. He tried to cry out but found himself unable to do so. His eyes fixed forward, looking at the face of Commodore Jonathan Durant on comm; he could not look even from side to side.
How pitiable a creature, the voice said. Why should we even bother? Better to use our k'th's's on more pliable targets. His enhanced understanding gave him no image of what a k'th's's might be, but he wasn't anxious to find out.
Hsien found himself watching and listening as the captain of the Gibraltar changed its course toward the two huge enemy ships. He heard his own voice giving similar commands to the other ships in the fleet.
Suddenly he felt a presence in the room and a faint stirring, like a breeze blowing through an open window. He could not raise his head to see, but he felt, and heard, something gliding across the deck toward where he sat, immobilized, feeling like a fly trapped in the spider's web, waiting to be consumed . . .
Ann Sorenson, His Majesty's Consul on Cle'eru Four, turned away from packing her office when the door chimed. With staff already gone, there was no one to filter visitors; but Security was still on duty, so it would not be anyone dangerous.
"Come," she said, returning to the onerous job of separating useful from useless.
Hansie Sharpe stepped into her office, one hand holding a handkerchief with which he was mopping his brow. "Beastly hot," he said to no one in particular, darting his eyes from place to place in the room and taking in the whole scene.
"I'm afraid the Imperial bureaucracy puts little emphasis on personal comfort," the consul answered. She took her seat behind the desk, stacked with piles of documents. "I can offer you a drink, though, Hansie."
"No, quite all right," he answered, taking a chair opposite. He looked nervous and on edge. "It's true, then."
"What's true?"
"The Empire is pulling out of Cle'eru."
"I wouldn't exactly say that. It's more a question of changing to wartime status."
"'Wartime status.' And with whom are we at war?"
"You know I'm not at liberty—"
"Ann, my dear," Hansie interrupted. "Do me the courtesy of dropping diplomatic pretense. We've known each other and—I thought—been friends since you came to Cle'eru six, or was it seven, years ago?"
"Six."
"Six, then. I think you would have to acknowledge that I am among the leading citizens of this world, and as such have a right to know at what risk the colony is being placed."
"I suppose you do." She folded her hands in front of her on the desk. "However, I am under orders not to volunteer any information. You're not looking to set our longtime friendship against my duty to His Imperial Majesty, are you, Hansie? Because you must know my choice."
"I . . . accept that, Ann. On the other hand, if you could confirm or deny information I already possessed, you wouldn't be violating your orders not to volunteer anything, would you?"
"Well, I . . ."
"I thought you might see it that way," he said, beaming as if he'd scored a debating point. "Now, Ann, dear, you needn't tell me anything—merely answer yes or no. Fair?"
"I . . . suppose so." It'll be the easiest way to get him out of my hair, she thought.
"Now." He adjusted his sprawl in her chair. "We are presently at war, correct?"
"Yes."
"And our opponent . . . is not some faction within the Empire, nor is it bandits outside our borders. It's someone—no, something else. A new alien race."
". . . Yes, though I'd like to know your source."
"Ah." Hansie gave a carnivorous smile. "That would be telling. May I continue?"
"Please do."
"Our zor friends have their wings all aflutter about this business and I understand they knew something about it long before it began to happen."
"Yes," she answered.
"Excellent." He sat forward and placed his carefully manicured hands palms-down on her desk. "Now, tell me, Ann, my dear: Isn't it true that the naval officer that passed through here only a few weeks ago—Commodore Laperriere—is wrapped up in this, too?"
The question was so out of character with the previous line of inquiry that it caught her completely by surprise. She remembered the woman as well: a career-officer type, Regular Navy . . . except that she was working closely with the zor. Ann had had a bit of an exchange with her.
Hansie knew something. What was it?
"That's classified, Hansie. I'm afraid I can't go into it."
"I knew it. I knew it!" He flopped back into the chair. "I smelled something." He tapped the side of his nose. "Never fails, my dear. All right, let me take this a step further. Even the old zor sage S'reth is gone, bag and baggage. We both know how insular the zor are here and how proud they are of their development"—he jerked a thumb in the air—"up there. S'reth has been here practically since the world was settled, more than seventy years ago, and it looks like he's not coming back.
"Everything I hear says that S'reth is not the only such zor to have departed this planet. Most of the ones that left seemed to be heading for the zor Core Stars, clear to the other side of the Empire.
"I know for a fact"—he tapped a finger on Ann Sorenson's desk—"that Laperriere met with S'reth less than three days before she left. Now she's gone, he's gone, and you're going home as well. Something's going to happen here on Cle'eru, isn't it? There's going to be some kind of attack."
"I don't know that to be true."
"Ann, my entire life is here. Everything I own is here. Everything I am is here. I must know.
"Are we going to be attacked? Is Cle'eru safe?"
"Hansie." Ann looked away, at a pile of papers—anything to not meet his eyes. "I don't know if Cle'eru is safe; I don't know if anywhere is safe. We're—" She looked at him then, a pained look in her eyes. "We're all in danger."
"What are you telling me?"
"More than I should. Look here, Hansie, I have a lot of work to do—"
"What about the defense squadron, Ann?" Hansie stood up, turned away, and then seemed to round on her. "They jumped out of here. Where did they go? Has the Empire abandoned Cle'eru already?"
"I can't tell you where they've gone."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"I don't see as it matters. That information is classified, Hansie, and you knew that when you came in the door. If your sources are so damned good, maybe you should tell me. Now, I really do have work to do and I don't have much time to do it." She returned her attention to her desk.
"Not much time."
She looked up at him. She didn't really know what to say to Hansie Sharpe; she'd always been a gracious host, pleasant company on a distant posting. She wanted to reassure him somehow, even though it was annoying to have to deal with him at all. Ann didn't really feel she owed him anything, but still . . .
"No. Not much time at all."
Hansie looked down at the floor and seemed about to reply. He started, stopped again and finally said, "Well, I suppose some information is better than none. I suppose I have a lot to do, as well."