Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (13 page)

Treet raised his eyes higher and higher still. The many-domed mound rose like a great multifaceted mountain of crystal. Here and there spars poked through the domes, trailing thick, dark cables which gave the appearance of lifting the mass like cathedral spires or the poles of a circus tent. Up and up like foothills climbing to the summit, the bright domes swelled—all sizes jumbled together, gleaming in the sunlight like wonderful, gigantic soap bubbles dropped from the sky—some big enough to cover a building or two, others, larger by many times, able to enclose a small city with room for a few suburbs.

The glistening mountain stretched away for kilometers on either hand, and wherever the eye rested, the glimmer of bright transparency winked back. Empyrion stood an enchanted crystal mountain whose top reached shimmering into the clear blue sky.

“Impossible!” said Treet, his voice hushed in awe. “I can't believe it.”

“Incredible,” agreed Pizzle. “It's unimaginable! How could they build this … this bubble city in so short a time? It isn't possible.”

“Look at this,” said Crocker. The three turned to look where he pointed. His gloved hand extended toward the ground. They saw the platform beneath their feet littered with small rocks and pebbles, bits of glass, warped fibersteel plates, and something that looked like crinkled pink moss growing in thickly scattered patches over the structure. “This landing field doesn't get much use, I'd say.” He swiveled around and took in the broad expanse of the platform. “It looks like it's been abandoned for years … decades.”

“The colony isn't that old,” put in Pizzle.

“I know.” Crocker turned back to the others. “I can't explain it.”

“Maybe this isn't the colony,” replied Treet simply, then shuddered to think what he had just said. Not the colony? Then who …?

“It is the colony.” Yarden spoke with such certainty that the men pivoted toward her. She stood stock-still with her arms pressed to her sides.

“What is it, Yarden?” asked Crocker. “What are you getting?”

Just then she stiffened and pointed at the wall directly before them about a kilometer away. “They are coming to meet us,” she said, but the words were flat, no happiness or excitement in them, but rather something darker, almost sinister.

Treet saw a portion of the wall raise up and a dark shape emerge, followed by another and then a third. These came rapidly toward them on clouds of dust, filling the air with a ringing whine as they drew nearer.

Closer, the travelers could make out men standing in these strange vehicles—men dressed as they were, in atmosphere suits, dark and close fitting, however, and made of a material that shone with a faint luster. A helmet with black faceplate obscured their faces, making them appear monstrous and malevolent.

“I don't like this,” said Treet. “They don't look too happy to see us. Where are the weapons?”

“We probably surprised them,” suggested Pizzle. “No prior radio contact—they probably wonder who we are.”

“Shh! They can probably hear you too,” snapped Crocker. “Let me handle this.” He stepped forward. “Yarden? Anything?”

The young woman was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “There is something there, but… it's blocked. I can't read it.”

Now the first vehicle swept up, slowing only minimally as it approached. Men stood in the rear of the machine, darkened faceplates turned toward them. One man, a driver, stood ahead of the others, holding controls in both hands. Then the thing swung sideways, and Treet saw two wheels beneath its smooth belly throwing up dust. Another two-wheeler swung around to the other side and the third parked between them, somewhat closer than the other two.

The two groups watched each other. No one moved.

With a shock Treet recognized the snub-snouted barrels of weapons in the hands of the dark-suited colonists. “They're armed!” he whispered harshly.

“Shh!” Crocker hissed. “I'll do the talking.”

With that, the pilot stepped forward slowly, raising his right hand in the classic greeting. “Brothers,” he said, his voice confident, controlled, “we're glad to see you …” He hesitated as there was no answer, no sign of recognition from the other side. One hand went to his forearm panel to make an adjustment. “Wideband broadcast,” he said to himself, then continued boldly, “We've come from Earth.” No response. “From Earth.”

At this a harsh, guttural growl issued from one of the colonists—more a bark than a voice.

It was difficult to tell which one had shouted, but Treet saw a figure in the center two-wheeler jerk his hand upward and the men around him disembarked, stepping from the vehicle to advance cautiously toward them, weapons at the ready.

“Tell them we're friendly,” Treet said urgently. “Tell them, Crocker!”

“We're
friends.
We've come from Earth,” repeated the Captain, to no avail.

The line of men stopped just short of the travelers, and the man who had given the signal approached. He stepped closer and examined each of them carefully, his dark faceplate reflecting sunlight like the shell of a beetle.

“What is this?” Treet addressed the man. “What's going on? Why don't you speak to us?”

The man appeared not to have heard, but went on with his inspection, moving to Pizzle, Talazac, and Crocker in turn. The colonist stepped back a pace and looked at them, as if trying to decide what to do next. Clearly their presence here posed some kind of problem for the colonists. Treet sensed that a decision was being made and that the next few moments were critical. He had to break through to them, but how?

“We're from Cynetics,” Treet said, speaking out suddenly. The colonist and his men jerked their attention to Treet. “Cynetics,” he said again, repeating the word distinctly.

At the word, a garbled mutter broke out among the colonists. Treet heard it in his helmet as a gibber of voices talking over one another with subdued excitement, whereupon one voice cut through the others with a shout, and there was silence again.

The colonist raised his hand and pointed at Treet and said something, his low voice buzzing. Two men stepped forward quickly and grabbed Treet by the arms.

“Hey! Let me go!” cried Treet. “Hey!”

“Stop!” shouted Crocker, dashing up.

“Help!” Treet struggled in the grasp of the colonists, but they hauled him bodily along. “Shoot them!”

Behind him he heard the sounds of a scuffle: short breaths, grunts, and curses—presumably from Crocker and Pizzle; a gabble of thick, unintelligible syllables, from the colonists.

The fight sounds halted abruptly. In order to see behind him, Treet had to turn his whole upper torso around, which was difficult, pinioned as he was between the two who were dragging him toward the center two-wheeler. When they paused at the vehicle to shove him in, Treet managed to twist around. He saw two bodies lying on the platform, and the third—Yarden?—being dragged to one of the other two-wheelers.

“Crocker!” he screamed. “Pizzle! Talazac!”

There was no reply. He felt hands on him, hoisting him up into the two-wheeler, and he was tumbled in headfirst. Then they were speeding back to the wall and into the crystal mountain beyond.

“Where is this one
going?” A Nilokerus guard stepped into the corridor, halting the suspension bed maneuvered by a second-order physician.

The physician stopped abruptly, turned stiffly toward the guard, and held up a packet with a violet Threl seal. “He's for the Saecaraz. Jamrog's initiative. He wants to keep an eye on this one personally.”

The guard stepped close to the floating bed and peered curiously down into the face of the man lying there. “Is he the one that called on Cynetics?”

“No. I hear that one's to remain with the Supreme Director in Threl High Chambers. This is one of the others.”

“Looks harmless enough.” The guard shrugged and stepped aside, and the physician shoved the body-bearing bed away once more. They had traveled no more than ten paces when the guard turned his head to his shoulder and whispered, “The prisoner is on the way, Subdirector Fertig.”

A click sounded in the folds of the guard's clothing as the circuit opened. “Acknowledged. Report to Fairweather level in Tanais sector for reassignment.”

“At once.” The shoulder mike clicked off, and the guard spun on his heel and hurried along the deserted terrace toward his new destination, muttering, “This is news! I'll get a round for this tonight. Maybe two!”

Orion
Treet was awake, and his head felt stuffed with oatmeal. A small spot on his upper arm ached, as if he'd been burned with a lighted cigar just below the shoulder. Or branded.

Branded? The thought caused him to sit bolt upright on the suspension bed. He sprang up too quickly, the bed dipped, and Treet rolled onto the floor. Black spots of dizziness pinwheeled before his eyes. Presently the spots faded and, still sprawled on the floor, he looked cautiously at his right arm where he saw only a thin scratch and a tiny red bruise. He rubbed the spot for a moment as he studied his cell.

It was a small, pie-shaped room with a ceiling that curved upward, toward some apex beyond—a section of a dome. The ceiling was translucent and glowed light green, softly tinting the bare walls of the cell. The doorway, narrow, but with strangely rounded posts and a lancet arch, stood open. There was no door, and a further door glimpsed beyond a connecting room was open too. Either the colonists had no use for doors, or they had a more efficient way of sealing rooms.

Treet guessed the latter: a barrier field of some sort.

This inspection done, Treet turned his attention to the rest of the room. He saw a black-and-silver bundle on a shelf which jutted out from the wall. Since it was the only other object in the room besides the suspension bed—and since he was naked and beginning to feel foolish sitting on the floor—Treet decided to investigate.

Pushing himself up slowly—so as not to start the black spots dancing again—he moved toward the shelf, stealing a glance through the open doorway as he went. He was alone; no one appeared in either doorway, nor could he see anyone in the room beyond.

Taking the bundle from the shelf, Treet shook out the folds to reveal a lightweight robe of a material that looked and felt like silk. The robe—short, with a large V-shaped hole for his head— was black with silver diagonal stripes. A second garment fell out of the first—a pair of coarse, baggy black leotards with molded synthetic rubber soles sewn into the feet. There was no undergarment, but, not feeling at all choosy, he pulled on the leotard and drew it over his legs; the high waistband came all the way up to his solar plexus.

Next he slipped the flimsy, long-sleeved robe over his head. The garment reached midcalf, but once the two broad silver bands dangling from his waist were wrapped around and tied at his side, creating a sash, the hemline rose to just above his kneecaps.

The clothes were remarkably comfortable—more so than the singleton he always wore. The fine quality of the robe, and the silky sensation against his skin, made him feel like a Chinese emperor. He smoothed the folds beneath his hands and, with nothing else to do, sat down once again on the edge of the bed to wait, replaying in his mind all that he could remember of the scuffle on the landing field.

He had disembarked and was immediately met by three vehicles carrying colonists. An attempt at communication had been made, at which point he had been attacked. Treet remembered being buffeted around somewhat—a sore thigh and ribs told him he had taken a blow or two—and then dragged toward one of the vehicles. At some point after being hauled aboard, his memory went blank.

Then he had awakened in this cell. He could remember nothing else after that, and only isolated patches from before. He remembered his conversation with Varro and meeting Neviss; he remembered eating a fine meal, but not what he ate; remembered a satchel full of money, now gone; and before that being hauled from a public bath at Houston International at gunpoint. Only snatches—a jigsaw puzzle with lots of pieces missing, islands of clarity surrounded by seas of featureless confusion.

But there should be more, he told himself. What about the others?

Certainly there had been others—he could hardly have come here alone. There had to have been a transport, and
someone
would have had to fly it.

I did not come alone, he thought. There
were
others,
had
to be others. Why can't I remember them?

The
room in which Yarden Talazac found herself was faintly reminiscent of her childhood home. There was no ceiling, but the soft, shifting light, filtering in from high above, sending faint ripples of dappled shadow across smooth white walls, reminded her of the seaside villa of her father. Her room had been adjacent to the inner courtyard and open to the sky. She had always loved the feeling of freedom the room inspired, and at twilight, when the plexidome was raised for the night above the courtyard, stars shone down upon her bed.

But this room was not in her father's house. Somewhere else then. Where? She could not say. She had the feeling, though, that she had come from very far away to this place. How she had come, and why, she did not know.

At the same time, she felt that she had always been here—in this room, sitting on the bed, watching the shadow shapes drift like clouds over the wall. That could not be, she knew. There must be a life outside this room, but…