Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (31 page)

How is this possible? wondered Treet. Old Belthausen and his
Interstellar Travel Theory
didn't know the half of it. Nothing he'd read in that book, with its incomprehensible charts, dizzy diagrams, and endless dry calculations, had prepared him for this.

He returned the blue notebook to its place in the center of the row of colored notebooks. It was the one Calin had pulled out at random; he had intended to begin at the beginning like a good and diligent scholar, but in flipping through the book he had become so absorbed in it he'd read it straight through. It had raised more questions than it answered, unfortunately. But at least he had glimpsed something of the scope his inquiry would have to take. And he knew a great deal about what had happened between the years 1270 and 1485—eventful years for the Empyrion colony.

During that time the enormous work of sealing Empyrion under the fabulous crystal domes had been completed, enclosing the eight separate cities of the Cluster. A deadly second Purge had shaken Empyrion to its core when the death of the first Supreme Director touched off a string of Directorate assassinations, ending in a citizen's revolt and the ultimate establishment of the Threl.

It was this last event, he had discovered, that the colony now dated from. The year 1485 added to the current year 1481 equaled 2,966—slightly less than three thousand years. Unbelievable, but true. He had arrived 2,966 years into Empyrion colony's future and stood looking down a long corridor of years at monumental and life-changing events.

Interspersed with these major events were smaller happenings, faithfully recorded by the patron saint of Rumon Hage: the yearly fluctuations in productivity, the rise and fall of birthrates and deathrates among the populace, the institution of assigned marriage, the abolition of assigned marriage, the slow succession of Directors, the dredging of Kyan, the advent of the poak, and much more. There was little doubt in Treet's mind that were he to read each and every volume, as he indeed intended, he would find them all equally exacting and painstakingly precise as the one he'd just finished.

Here in this orderly row of long-hidden notebooks were the answers to all his questions—including the primary one: what had gone wrong? He still didn't know the answer to that, nor to the other ten thousand that occurred to him, such as, who were the Fieri and why were they so hated in the first place? What had caused the first Purge? How had the colony been governed before the Directorate? Why had the Cluster been closed? And on and on. But the answers were here within his grasp—thanks to Feodr Rumon, who, nearly seven hundred years ago, had hidden his books in the unused sewer below the Archives.

Treet unfolded himself from his squatting position on the floor and stretched stiff muscles. How long had he been sitting there? Four hours? Eight? It seemed only minutes, but his back assured him it had been much longer. Next time he'd have to make sure to bring a chair—he looked around to see Calin sound asleep, stretched out on the floor behind him—and a bed wouldn't be a bad idea either.

“Rise and shine, Calin,” said Treet, still pressing his knuckles into the small of his back, trying to loosen the kinks. “I've had enough for one night. It's time to go back.” He stooped and shook her shoulder gently, lingering over the feel of her warmth through the silken smoothness of the yos.

She moved, and Treet withdrew his hand. She came fully awake and glanced around, remembered where they were, and relaxed again. “Yes, we're still down in the cellar, but it's time to go.” Treet extended a hand to her and lifted her up. For a moment they stood close, then Calin lowered her eyes and stepped away.

“You wish to go back to your kraam now?” she asked.

“I'm exhausted. We'll sleep, get something to eat, and then come back here.” He let his gaze travel the length of the room, sweeping the shelves and well-ordered rows. “There's a lot to do, and I want to get at it.”

Calin nodded and then led them back into the pipeline. Treet walked beside her. “Tell me,” he said, as they felt their way along in the darkness, “how did you know the secret room was down there?”

“I used my psi,” she answered simply. “I knew it was there when I found it.”

Treet thought about this. “Of course. But if you didn't know it was there until you found it, how did you know where to look for it?”

“My psi showed me.”

“Your psi.”

“You wanted to find records and disks, you said—about people. I asked my psi to show me. He led me to the place.”

“He
led you? Your psi is a
he?”
For a second it seemed like she was talking about some kind of psychic ability or magic. Now she implied that her psi was a person. “Explain him.”

“Each magician receives energy from his psi—one of the higher entities who are part of the Universal Oversoul. The psi energy bodies give magicians their powers.”

“Universal Oversoul? That sounds noonoo nana to me, Calin. I don't believe in any such thing.”

Calin seemed not to mind his agnosticism. She continued, “I asked Nho—that's the name of my psi entity—where to find the records you sought. He led me.”

“Yeah. Well, whatever.” Obviously the trick worked, however it was accomplished. Who was he to argue with success?

They came to the junction box, took the left branch, followed the pipe to the metal ladder, and climbed it to the oval manhole above. The skylight wells cut into the ceiling of the Archives showed daylight once again. They'd spent the entire night in the hidden room. “Was this just open like this?” Treet indicated the oval hole in the floor.

“No, I uncovered it.” Calin pointed to a massive cylinder.

In the faint daylight Treet saw a wide ring around the manhole. The circumference of the ring corresponded precisely to the circumference of the standing cylinder.

Calin touched the nearby lamp, and the globe went dark. She removed it and walked to the cylinder, placed her hands flat on its sides, closed her eyes, and grew very still—just as she had done with the computer terminal. A few seconds of silence ticked by, and Treet saw the huge metal vessel move. He stared as the cylinder trembled and raised from the floor the merest fraction of a centimeter and hovered toward the hole. The slender magician, palms still flat against the sides, not guiding so much as merely maintaining contact, did not appear under any stress at all. If the enormous object—it must easily have weighed several tons— caused her any strain, she did not show it. Her face remained as calm and expressionless as it had in sleep.

Treet gaped as the cylinder settled into exactly the same spot as before. “That's what I call impressive,” he said softly.

Calin stepped from the cylinder and turned to face Treet. “Nho's energy is strong. It flows from the Universal Oversoul; I am merely a channel.”

They threaded their way back to the entrance where the Saecaraz Hage priest still slept. They climbed back up the wide steps to stand over the priest. Treet nudged him with a toe. “Should we just leave him here?”

“He must make a report to Rohee.”

“How can he do that? He's been asleep the whole time.” Treet kicked him gently and raised his voice. “Come on. Sleeping Beauty! On your feet—it's your turn to dance.”

“Mff-ugh,” the priest snorted. He climbed clumsily to his feet and shook out his yos; the creases were sharp and probably permanent. With a suspicious glare at Treet, he snatched up his black-handled ropes and retreated back through the Archives entrance.

Treet pressed his full weight against the door. It boomed shut, and he resealed the entrance before joining Calin, who was waiting a little way up the passage. The priest was nowhere in sight.

“He didn't waste any time, did he?” said Treet.

“Today is a Service day. All Hages celebrate the Service, and all priests officiate.”

“A high Holy Day, is that it? Well, sorry I'll have to miss it. I've got more important things to do—like sleep.” He yawned and they started off, back toward the first of many sets of metal doors fifty meters away.

Ernina
sat over a bowl of spiced chayote broth, dipping a rusk to soften it. She pondered the night's reading: a book about genetic factors in blood and circulatory system diseases. As always, she was left awed and a little depressed by the ancients' skill and knowledge. Their words spoke to her across a chasm of years; they, long dead and forgotten, knew secrets she could hardly grasp—even when she read them for herself. Such knowledge, such power they had possessed.

Where had it all gone? Cynetics gives, and Cynetics takes away, she sighed. Even that name, once holy and spoken only with greatest reverence, had lost its significance. No one believed in Cynetics anymore. In fact, most of the lower-order Hagemen did not believe the ancients had ever existed. Even the priests had long ago stopped reciting the Credo in worship.

She sighed again, raised the soggy rusk to her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. These last few days a pensive, almost wistful longing had filled her waking moments. She found herself returning again and again in her mind to thoughts of the elder times. This, she knew, was due to the presence of the Fieri in the room beyond her own.

His body of bones and flesh and blood was a living link between the here and now and those far-distant days, the First Days. His existence was proof of the Credo of Cynetics; and instead of bowing at his feet in all humility and honor, ignorant men like Hladik and Jamrog and all the rest did their best to extinguish memory of the old ones by hounding any who still revered them, reorienting believers or killing them outright.

It was madness—madness born of hate. Ernina had seen enough of it in her life to know that hate was the twisted child of fear. Why did they hate so? What did they fear that they had to destroy even the memory of a race long deceased?

But they were
not
all deceased. The Fieri in the next room attested to that. Somewhere, somehow they still existed. And this, no doubt, was what the small-minded men feared.

Ernina sipped the last of her broth and placed her bowl on its tray. She rose, went to her inner room, and closed the book she had been reading, then put it safely away.

Today perhaps her special patient would feel like talking. He was recovering rapidly. Soon he would be able to walk. And then what? He would go back to Hladik.

No; not if she could help it. The Dhogs knew and protected one another. The Dhogs, Hageless nonbeings, lived out a shadowy existence in the no-man's-land of the ruined Old Section, it was believed. She had never seen one, or known anyone who had. But if the rumors held any truth at all, they must have leaders and there must be a way to reach them.

In that moment Ernina made up her mind. She would risk all to contact the Dhogs. What does it matter if I am caught? she thought. What can they do to me they have not already done to many others? They can kill me but once. I will see this Fieri safely hidden among the Dhogs. At least they will know how to help him.

She heard a movement in the patient's quarters, and dashed back through her rooms. It was too early; he mustn't try to walk yet, even if he did feel stronger. He needed rest.

Ernina entered the room and froze. The bed was empty, her patient gone.

In the darkness of
the sanctuary Yarden huddled in her seat, knuckles pressed against teeth. She waited. The mass of bodies around her waited too, hushed and expectant. The air within the temple vibrated with the pulse of five thousand bodies, all straining for the moment of release and transcendence. All except Yarden who waited only for release from the stifling temple.

From the rear of the sanctuary a low, thrumming sound began, and a purple light shone down on the celebrants from above. Presently a line of priests carrying thick, smoking tapers appeared, moving slowly down the wide aisles from the four corners of the pyramid. They walked backward, chanting. M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! The sound rose on the first syllable and fell on the second. M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O!

The congregation picked up the chant, and soon the entire temple hummed with the deep, resonant sound: M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O!

The chant grew in volume. M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! Pulsing. Throbbing. M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! The sound vibrated eardrums and diaphragm. It bored into the skull; the brain quivered with it. M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! M-M-M-Ah-O-O! The blood pulsed with the rising sound. M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O! M-M-M-Ah-Ah-O-O-O!

The tempo quickened. M-M-Ah-O-O! The priests came closer. M-M-Ah-O-O-! The candles stank of burning hair and fat. The priests moved backward down the aisles, holding their flickering lights high. M-M-Ah-O-O!

They reached the front of the sanctuary, came together, and placed their foul lights on stands, then raised their hands high above their heads. M-M-Ah-O-O! On each raised palm was the painted symbol of an eye, glowing faintly in the purplish light. M-M-Ah-O-O! M-M-Ah-O-O!

The entire temple rocked with the chant, now louder and more insistent. M-Ah-O! M-Ah-O! It rumbled from five thousand throats. Swelling. Booming. Rolling. M-Ah-O! M-Ah-O!

The sound was deafening. Yarden pressed her hands to her ears to keep it out, but the horrid noise beat through her palms and into her brain. She squeezed her eyes shut tight and held her head. M-Ah-O! M-Ah-O! M-Ah-O! M-Ah-O-O-M-M-M-M-M-m-m-m….