Dominion (14 page)

“And whose people would we rescue first?” asked Paul. “Ours? Our mother?”

“Yes!”

“Don't you think Thula might have an opinion on that, or Rizzo? Why is our family more valuable than theirs?”

“It's not like that. You're twisting my words.”

“Maybe we could draw lots.”

“You're just—”

“And that assumes we can even get past whatever is waiting for us at the other side of the wormhole.”

That shut Steven up.

“Have you even been listening to what's being said back there,” Paul continued, “to what Meia and the Cayth were discussing? The Others know about the Cayth, and that means that the Corps knows too. By now, I'd say they suspect that the reason why nothing returns from the Derith wormhole may be because of the presence of the Cayth, and the fact that we fled into it has probably only confirmed those suspicions. At the very least, the Corps will have left one ship on the other side of the wormhole, in case we do come back out, but my guess is there's worse to come.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it: a whole alien species, just waiting to be infested by the Others.”

Even in his anger, Steven understood. He looked past Paul to where Fara and Kal were sitting.

“But how can they infect the Cayth if the Cayth have no physical form?” asked Steven. It was a reasonable question, asked in a reasonable tone, thankfully. His brother seemed to be calming down.

“In a way, all of this is the Cayth,” Paul replied, gesturing at the ship and their surroundings. “They don't just drift through their world as spirits. They have to interface with their ships, their technology. You've seen how nervous they are. If even one spore were to get into a Cayth ship, it would be the end of them.”

“And you believe that the Others are coming for them?”

“Yes, with the help of the Corps.”

Steven kicked at the floor of the ship in frustration, and Paul half expected to see some irate manifestation of the Cayth emerge, rubbing its head. Despite all that was happening, the image made him smile.

“What?” said Steven.

“All of this,” said Paul. “You know, neither of us can remember an existence before the Illyri. I can't recall a time when we weren't scared, or fighting, or just trying to survive. Now we're stuck here in the arse-end of the universe, and all I've ever wanted to do is go home, but I'm not even sure if there's a home to go back to anymore.”

He dug his fingers firmly into his brother's shoulder, and stared hard at him.

“Of all the crew, of everyone left who matters to me—even Syl—it's you I have to be able to rely on the most. It's you I trust. You're my brother. We're blood. But I can't have you arguing with me, not like you did. Whatever you may think of my decisions, I have to look at the bigger picture. I'm responsible for everyone on the
Nomad
, and not just them; right now we probably know more about the Others than anyone outside the Corps, and the Cayth can add to that knowledge. One ship won't defeat them, and won't win back Earth for us, but what we learn here might.”

Steven nodded.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “But when I thought about poor Mum . . .”

“I know. And I think I have a plan. I can't go back there, much as I want to. I need to stay with Syl.”

“Because you love her?”

“Well, perhaps”—Paul's cheeks went a little pink—“but mainly because of what she can do. What if the Cayth are right, Steven? What if Syl is our weapon?”

Again, Steven nodded. “All right. I get it.”

“But obviously someone needs to go back to Earth,” said Paul. “I think it'll have to be you.”

“Me? Alone?”

“You can take Rizzo, and Alis. I doubt that she'll want to stay with us anyway if you leave, but that aside, she has some very useful skills that no human has, and no Illyri either, come to think of it. You may well need her more than you know.”

Steven frowned. “If I take Alis, then who'll fly your ship?”

“Well, Meia, obviously, and Thula can help. Remember he was in the flight commander program, and doing pretty damned well too if I recall, before he lost his temper.”

“Oh yes.” A glimmer of humor played on Steven's face. Thula had been on his way to becoming a pilot before he punched out a tutor who was annoying him and found himself busted back to the ranks, so he knew his way around a cockpit, even if he was nowhere near as accomplished a pilot as Steven.

“Okay,” said Steven. “I'll do it. It may not be an army, but it's a start.”

Paul smiled at him.

“Oh, I think I may be able to guide you to an army too.”

P
aul and Steven returned to the table. While they had been talking, the Cayth had done more than simply cut the
Varcis
's oxygen supply: they had begun to void it from the ship, so that most of the crew were already in obvious distress, trying to breathe shallowly even as their lungs cried out for more air.

Paul resumed his seat next to Kal.

“I presume you were listening to us,” said Paul.

If Kal felt at all embarrassed, then he didn't show it.

“We hear everything on the ship.”

“And do you agree with my assessment of your situation?”

“I hope that it is inaccurate, but I fear it's true.”

“How long can the Cayth hold out?”

“I have already summoned the rest of the fleet. We'll strengthen the defenses and boost the nets. A full-scale invasion might break us, but we can deal with smaller incursions.”

“The Illyri are at war with one another,” said Paul. “That's good news for you.”

“They
were
at war,” Kal corrected him, “when you came through the wormhole. Who knows what the situation is now?”

“I've never heard of a short civil war,” said Paul. “They have a habit of dragging on. Syl, how long did the last Illyri civil war go on for?”

“Almost a hundred years.”

“See?” said Paul to Kal. “A hundred years. I think it's safe to say that they're probably just getting started. Now, can you patch me into Fenuless? Let's see if she's in more of a mood to talk.”

Kal indicated with his hand that the channels were open.

“Commander Fenuless? This is Lieutenant Kerr. You and your crew seem to be in some difficulty.”

“Our . . . oxygen,” Fenuless gasped. “The systems . . . are . . .”

“Under our control, like everything else on your vessel. You see, I don't really have time for your posturing. I have questions that I need answered, and so do our friends here with me. So here's what I'm proposing: I'll restore your oxygen, and you'll answer our questions. The moment you cease to cooperate, I'll let you and your crew die.”

“You're a . . . savage,” said Fenuless.

“I'm Scottish,” said Paul, “so I've heard that one before. Are we in agreement?”

Fenuless spluttered her assent.

“Restore their oxygen supply,” said Paul.

He was so focused on the image of the
Varcis
and her personnel that he did not notice how intently the members of his own crew were watching him. Somehow, they had gone from a situation where they were at the mercy of an unknown alien race to having their lieutenant giving orders to that same race.

While Fenuless and her officers recovered themselves, Meia asked Kal to cut the audio again. Paul leaned toward her, curious.

“Can you give me the previous scan, the internal one, as well?” she said.

Kal did, superimposing one image of the
Varcis
on the other so that Fenuless and the others appeared semitransparent. The parasites they were carrying were clearly visible in seven of them, although Fenuless's was bigger than the rest, and its tendrils spread more deeply through her system.

“Interesting,” said Meia.

“What is?”

“Can you see the development of the Other in Fenuless? Look there, deep in the lateral tissue of her brain.”

Meia pointed at Fenuless's image, and the Cayth responded by lighting up the section of Fenuless's brain beside Meia's finger, a section separating the frontal and parietal lobes from the temporal lobe. A particularly thick tendril from the Other had embedded itself there, with smaller tendrils running from it.

“That is the anterior insular cortex,” said Meia.

“What does it do?” asked Syl.

“In both humans and Illyri, it's linked to high-level cognitive functions: error detection, language processing, self-awareness—consciousness, I suppose—but it also processes empathy. It's the part of the brain that makes you, and those like you, compassionate.”

“Meaning?” asked Paul.

“The Other is clearly tied deeply to Fenuless's consciousness,” said Meia. “They're close, almost functioning as one. I would theorize that the distinction between them is minimal. Fenuless is the Other, and the Other is Fenuless. On a practical level, it has also probably cut off her empathic responses. Lieutenant, Fenuless is a killer, and almost certainly by choice.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The Other is an infection, and the brain tissue would be expected to exhibit signs of inflammation or irritation in response to its incursions. I see no such signs. The Other may well have suppressed her immune reactions, but the complexity of the connections between them indicates a mutual dependence. The Other also appears to have almost entirely enclosed Fenuless's amygdala, the section of the brain linked to violence and psychopathy. If we assume that Fenuless's transformation is not unique, then it would suggest a heightened capacity for ruthlessness among those members of the Corps and Securitats who have been implanted with Others.”

“It wasn't like the Securitats were lacking in ruthlessness to begin with,” said Steven.

“But it's helpful if you're starting a war against your own people,” said Thula.

The layout of Fenuless's ship was slightly different from the
Nomad
in that the
Varcis
had an elevated captain's seat behind the two pilot chairs. Fenuless was now sitting in that raised seat, the rest of her crew ranged around her.

“Okay, let's see what she has to say for herself,” said Paul. “Commander, I trust you're enjoying the taste of fresh oxygen again. It does come at a price, though.”

“Ask your questions,” said Fenuless.

“What is your mission? And ‘to destroy' is not an acceptable answer.”

A game was being played, and they both knew it. Fenuless would do her best to keep as much from Paul as she could, regardless of any threat to her oxygen supply. Paul would have to infer as much from what he was not told as from what she chose to reveal.

“We were initially ordered to be part of the assault on Melos Station,” said Fenuless. “We were redirected to follow and intercept you.”

“On whose orders?”

“Dyer himself, supported by the Archmage Syrene.”

“Who's Dyer?” Paul asked Syl.

“I think he's a Consul—big in the Securitats,” Syl replied. “I seem to remember hearing his name before.”

“Consul Dyer is now President,” Fenuless confirmed. “He assumed the post when civil war broke out, because President Krake was deemed to be out of his depth.”

“Why? Because Krake's with the Military?” said Syl, in Illyri, addressing her question to Fenuless. President Krake had been a member of the Military, but had married a Nairene Sister named Merida. Those in the Military who distrusted the Sisterhood had warned him against it, but had been ignored, for Merida was beautiful, and Krake was as vain as he was arrogant.

“Perhaps,” said Fenuless, “even for a politician like Krake, it must have been hard to stand back and let his former comrades die.”

“Why not just get rid of him altogether?” asked Paul.

“I know only that President Krake's retention is considered necessary,” said Fenuless.

“That sounds logical,” said Meia. “Krake's continued presence as a figurehead, as the nominal President of Illyr, would appease the masses on the planet, particularly those Civilians who would have been more in favor of Military rule.”

Syl sighed heavily, for her father was a Military man, or had been, but now . . . well, who knew what he was, or what he had become. She looked again at the image of the Other in Fenuless's head, and wanted to vomit knowing such a thing dwelled within her own father. Andrus would hate such an invasion of the self, or rather the Illyri soldier that he once was would have hated it. She saw Paul look her way, but she pretended not to notice, refusing to acknowledge the concern on his face. Instead, she swallowed hard, choking back the growing despair, for she knew she had to hope. They all had to hope, or they might as well just lie down right here and die.

“And what was to happen once we were intercepted?” Paul asked the commander.

“Is Syl Hellais with you?” responded Fenuless.

Paul glanced at Syl again. She gave a small nod of her head.

“Yes. It was she who spoke to you in Illyri a few seconds ago.”

Seconds? he thought. That's probably hours on Earth.

“All those on board your ship were to be killed,” said Fenuless, “with one exception: the order for Syl Hellais's destruction was conditional. We were instructed to bring her back to the Marque alive if the opportunity presented itself. If it did not, she could be terminated with the rest of you. Oh, and by the way, Lady Syl”—some of Fenuless's natural arrogance had returned with the oxygen—“that decision met with the approval of Lord Andrus. In fact, as I understand it, he expressed no desire to see his daughter returned to him alive at all. Instead, the hand of mercy was extended by the Archmage Syrene.”

“You're lying,” said Syl, but her voice caught in her throat. She fell silent and simply stared intently at the image before them.