Dusk (68 page)

“Does this thing have enough power to engage
the main drive in the atmosphere?” Cyrus asked, his nerves steeling
even as the tears dried on his face. He noticed he was still
carrying Six’s bloodstained spear and that one of the heads had
broken off in the explosion.

“It would create a vacuum because it’s so
hot,” Jang reported, “but it would be possible.”

“They have armed their missiles!” Uzziah
bellowed, unsuccessful at keeping his composure.

“The grav-suppressors here are more efficient
than ours, no?” Cyrus asked.

“They make the Paracelsus look like a cutty
sark,” Jang reported, managing to stay calmer than Uzziah.

“Then burn the main, full power, now!”

As Paeryl stood with Cyndyl, Toobah, and the few
Apostates that had stayed behind, he watched the troubled ascent of
the Chariot through scanning goggles. Once the cargo doors had
finally closed, it had pulled up toward the atmosphere only to
confront another, larger formation of Echelon attack fighters. But
then suddenly, there was a bright flash, and a bizarre still filled
the air. There was a resounding clap, and the Chariot was gone. Two
of the fighters that had rushed toward them spun erratically as
Paeryl’s eyes adjusted. The two ships plummeted for a moment before
regaining their composure, but the other three fighters that had
stood in the path of the Chariot were no longer visible. And then,
from behind them, came a breeze the likes of which neither Asha,
nor Paeryl was accustomed to. It moved the hairs on the back of his
neck and the graying hairs on his head, and it wavered his clothing
as it rushed up toward the sky like children behind a procession.
Paeryl smiled, knowing the breeze was not the only thing Cyrus had
left behind, and the wind was not the only thing he was taking with
him. He reached over, took his wife’s hand, and they walked further
into wastes that had been most hospitable to them until now, to
find a place where they could bask in the rays of their beloved
Set, unmolested by the Archons that cowered from the light, to
await anyone who could leave enough of themselves behind to embrace
new life that only the light could provide.

The orange light of the Ashan sky gave way to
a starscape in a flicker, and before the louvers had come down
fully, the stars on the edges of Cyrus’s vision stretched out like
the spindles of an aster. The stars before them seemed to bloat and
swell, their light burning brighter and brighter until they felt as
if they would bore holes into Cyrus’s very consciousness. Even
after the louver had closed, and he had retired from the bridge,
the stars still seemed to be burning in front of him, their
intensity overwhelming his mind’s eye until it seemed his entire
existence was full of light. Doree and Fenrir were already sending
the others to facilitate the implementation of the suncasters in
the living quarters. They had already set up two in the infirmary,
and Toutopolus, Torvald, and Davidson worked with the automated
medical unit to administer aid to the men, women, and children that
had been wounded in the final battle. Loli made preparations in the
crematorium to allow each of those who had passed in their final
endeavor the chance to properly return what they had borrowed from
the universe. Cyrus walked over, and before he could open his mouth
to say something he did not know how to say, Loli embraced him.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage before
emotion built a swell in the corners of his own eyes.

“Don’t be sorry for him. This is what he
wanted from the time he came here—to be given a chance to live up
to his drawing and still win,” even though they had come out
between sobs, her words were strangely soothing.

Cyrus pulled her closer, accepting the warmth
of her body. “I meant for me and you.” She did not reply. She only
held him until she felt like she could finish what she needed to
do, which was not long enough for either of them. Six had gotten
what he wanted, had saved the entire sortie, but if there was
victory in his death at all, at least for now, he was the only one
with license to feel it.

But that was how it was, wasn’t it? Cyrus had
come to Asha and had sacrificed dearly, because he could no longer
live in a world that had forgotten how to. It did hurt, it chafed
to the bone, but probably not that day, probably not tomorrow, but
at some point, he would feel differently, because that was what
sacrifice meant. It meant not being afraid yesterday of what you
might lose today, because a man who is true to himself, true to
those around him, could not lose what was most important today, so
long as he set the world right for tomorrow. So at Six’s cremation
Cyrus would not weep, he would not feel sorrow, because these
Apostates had lain meekly in the wastes of a planet long forgotten
by its original inhabitants, and thanks to Six, and the sacrifices
of all those on this ship, and all those who did not make it, the
meek were now free to claim their inheritance.