Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (61 page)

“Wake up, Treet; they're using you. You owe them nothing. You're not bound by anything—except your own inflated ego!”

“You don't know—”

“Give it up,” Yarden pleaded. “Please, give it up. You don't have to go. You don't owe them anything. What goes on in Dome doesn't concern us any longer. We're free. Forever free. The life we've always dreamed of—that all mankind has always dreamed of—is here. And it's ours for the asking. Please, Orion, stay with me. We'll be happy.”

“I want nothing more. You have to believe that, Yarden. But what happens inside Dome
does
concern us. Can't you see that? Dome will strike again; they can't stop themselves, so they have to be stopped and there's no one else to do it. I have to try. I don't want to, but I'm going.” He moved toward her, raising his hands to touch her. She stiffened and turned away.

“I'm leaving,” she said.

“No, wait. Don't go, Yarden. Let's talk about this.”

“You've made up your mind. There's nothing more to talk about.”

He watched her rigid form move through the doorway and disappear in the darkened corridor beyond. He knew that everyone in Talus' pavilion had probably heard them fighting, but he didn't particularly care anymore. He sank into a chair and shook his head wearily. Of all people, he expected Yarden, if not to support his decision, at least to understand it. Instead, she had reacted in the worst way possible.

Was she right? Was he being a stubborn, egomaniacal ass? Had he misread the signs entirely?

He thought about this, remembering the haunted expressions he'd seen on the faces of Dome's inhabitants: that vacant, sunken-eyed hopelessness that in the strange alchemy of repression was transmuting the simple desires of an abused people into a volatile ether awaiting the proper spark to ignite it. The spark would be a leader who, to slake his unquenchable greed and power lust, would turn the force of firestorm toward the innocent Fieri. The Fieri would become the hated enemy whose destruction would be presented as the panacea for all Dome's ills.

Treet knew that torturous trail for what it was. He'd seen the bloody cycle repeat itself too often in history not to recognize it now. The mystery was, why did no one else recognize it?

He would have gladly agreed with Yarden if there had been even the smallest particle of doubt in his mind, if there was any other logical explanation for what he had seen and heard. But he knew in the marrow of his bones he was right, and his scholarly integrity was too keenly developed over too many years to allow him to back away from his assessment just because it was inconvenient or threatening.

He was right. Dome would attack again, probably very soon. Something had to be done. It was all well and good to appeal to two millennia of peace and invoke a sacred oath of nonviolence. But the rabid, power-mad rulers of Dome would not think twice about violating peace or sacred oaths when they could conceive of neither.

As soon as Dome whipped themselves into enough of a killing frenzy, they would strike. They would venture out from under their enormous crystal shell with death in their hands; they would seek out the Fieri and annihilate them. They would do this, Treet knew, because, as it had happened time and time again on Earth, the mere presence of the Fieri challenged their warped existence the same way a single ray of light jeopardizes whole realms of darkness. Dome could never be reconciled to the Fieri— the differences between them were too great.

The problem was classic: how do you appease an enemy who will not be appeased by anything less than your death?

If the Fieri could accept annihilation out of religious conviction—as the Preceptor had pointed out, they knew the horror of war better than anyone else and had vowed that they would never increase that horror by participating in it—so be it. Treet had taken no such vow.

Besides, there was a chance that Dome could be diverted from its present course if he acted soon enough. And he wouldn't be alone: Tvrdy and Cejka and their followers already struggled to dismantle the war machine, or at least halt it. Perhaps with help they could succeed—perhaps not. But in any case there was absolutely nothing to lose. If they failed, there would be no life for the Fieri anyway.

One day soon Dome would again fill the skies with fire, and there would be no escape. To think otherwise was utter delusion. Besides, what kind of life would it be to awaken every morning wondering if this was the day the world would end? What kind of happiness could exist as long as the specter of inevitable destruction loomed larger every moment? What kind of feast is it where hooded death sits at the head of the table?

He had to go. There was no other way.

“I
think you're nuts, too,” said Pizzle when Treet saw him in the courtyard the next morning. “If you think you're going to talk me into going back with you, then you're more than nuts—you're psychotic.”

“I knew I could count on you, Pizzle. True blue.”

“So sorry! I've just never been much of a martyr. Aversion to suicide is one cultural trait I approve of. It's very practical.”

“I wouldn't expect you to be anything but practical. That's you all the way—good old pragmatic Pizzy.” The sarcasm in his voice finally got to Pizzle.

“Look, if you want to toddle off on some lunatic crusade, go right ahead. Who's stopping you? Anyway, you should thank me: a coward like me would only slow you down. You could save the world a lot quicker without me hanging on your back.”

“You're right about that. But, loath as I am to admit it, Pizzle, you've got a cool head on your shoulders when you choose to use it. You'd be a help.”

“Right. And this head is staying fixed on these shoulders. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Treet got up and looked down at Pizzle with dismay. “You don't have to make up your mind right now. Think it over, I'll be back.”

“Suit yourself.” Pizzle shrugged and looked myopically up at him. “But I'm not leaving Fierra. Ever. Jaire is taking me sailing today. You know what? I've never been sailing in my life. I've never been alone with a beautiful woman either, as a matter of fact. And this is just the beginning. I intend to start doing a lot of things I've never done before. I'd be a fool to leave this, and so would you.”

“Don't
you think there's the slightest chance you could be overdramatizing all this?” Crocker sat across from Treet, leaning toward him, resting his forearms on his knees. The courtyard was cool and quiet in the midmorning sun. The yellow canopy made them both look slightly jaundiced.

Treet shook his head slowly. “No. I wish I could make myself believe I was wrong, but I've seen too much, I know too much. Pretending it doesn't exist won't make it go away.”

“I agree,” said Crocker. “If you feel that way, I think you should go.”

“You do?” Treet looked at the pilot closely, studying him for any trace of the odd aloofness he'd displayed since the travelers had been reunited. Crocker seemed himself, but Treet remained wary. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, if you can have an opinion, why can't I agree with it?”

“I mean, why do you think I should go? No one else does.”

“No big secret there, Treet. I just think a man has to do what he thinks is right no matter what.”

“Code of the Wild West, eh? A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.”

“Go ahead, make fun of the only person who believes in this crazy scheme of yours.”

“You say you believe and you still call it crazy. Thanks a lot.”

“I'm willing to go along with you.”

That stopped Treet cold. “You what?”

“I'll go with you—back to Dome. What's the matter? Isn't that what you want?”

“Sure, but—”

“But what? Isn't that what this little conversation was leading up to—asking me to go with you?”

“Yeah,” Treet admitted, feeling unsettled, but not certain why. “I
was
going to ask you to go with me.”

“So I saved you the trouble. This way, if anything goes wrong you won't have to feel responsible. You didn't recruit me—I volunteered.”

“You really want to go, huh?” Crocker's reaction was so different from what he'd received from Yarden and Pizzle, Treet was suspicious.

“It's not a question of
wanting to
go. But let's just say your little speech last night convinced me. Something has to be done, or we might just as well lie down in a deep hole and pull the sod over our heads. I'm not ready for that yet. If there's a chance we can prevent it, we've got to try. That's how I see it.”

“Crocker, you're a wonder,” said Treet “I figured you'd laugh in my face like Pizzle did.”

“Pizzle's a spineless, self-seeking coward! He's not worth spit,” replied Crocker with a vehemence that surprised Treet. Crocker and Pizzle had been the best of friends throughout their desert ordeal. It wasn't like Crocker to denounce him so strenuously.

Treet got to this feet, and Crocker slumped back in his chair, staring up at him. Treet said, “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'm going to look in on Calin. We'll start making plans for the return trip in the next day or two.”

“Fine.” Crocker nodded slowly. He looked gray and exhausted, as if wilting before Treet's eyes. “I'll be here.”

Treet left the courtyard quietly and made his way to Calin's second-floor room, knocked once, and went in.

The room was dark,
the woven draperies drawn, letting in little light from the open balcony beyond. The muted plashing of water mumbled like liquid voices, and the lake breeze soughing through the drapes made the room breathe as if alive. Calin lay on a low platform bed on her side with her knees drawn up to her chest. She did not move when Treet came in, and at first he thought her asleep. As he came to stand over the bed, he saw that her eyes were open, staring into the dimness of her room.

“Calin,” he ventured. No response. “It's me, Treet. I came to see how you're doing. Mind if I sit down?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, stretching his legs in front of him and leaning on his elbow. “You know,” he said, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice, “you've got our hosts climbing the walls. They can't figure out what's wrong with you. If there's anything you want to tell me, I'd like to listen.”

Treet waited, heard the faint ruffle of her shallow breath. “I know you can hear me, Calin. And I was hoping you'd talk to me. If anyone has a right to hear from you, I guess it's me. After all we've been through together, if you can't trust me, you really are out of luck.”

He grimaced at that last part, but Calin gave no indication that she'd heard him at all. He blustered ahead. “I was hoping you would at least talk to me … I, uh—I've got something to tell you.”

The Dome magician might have been in some kind of cataleptic trance for all the interest she showed in his news. Treet had heard of people who could simply will themselves to die, and wondered whether Calin had the knack.

“Anyway,” he told her matter-of-factly, “Crocker and I have decided to go back to Dome. There's unfinished business back there, and it's important we go as soon as possible. I don't know how we're going to get there yet, but…” He paused, then added impulsively, “I was wondering if you wanted to go back with us?”

Treet surprised himself with the question. When he entered the room he had no idea of asking her, and even as his lips formed the words he did not seriously consider that she would be able to respond to it.

But to Treet's amazement, Calin rolled over and looked at him. She blinked her eyes, and Treet saw her presence drifting back as if from far, far away. Her hand made a motion in the air, and Treet followed the gesture and saw a low table at the foot of the bed. A carafe of water and a cup sat on a tray. He poured water and lifted her head while she drank.

When she had sipped some water, Calin said in a creaky whisper, “Please … take me with you. I want to go back … back home.”

He stared at her for a moment, considering what he'd done. “Well, uh—I…”

“Please.” She clutched at his sleeve pathetically. “I will die here.”

What she said was likely true. One way or another she would die here. So, on impulse, he agreed. “Good. I want you to go with us. I need you, Calin—you're my guide, remember?”

The mention of her old function brought a sad, lost smile to the young woman's lips. “Your guide,” she said. “I will be your guide again.”

“Yes, but before we go anywhere you're going to have to pull yourself together. Okay?” He went to the draperies and yanked them open. Bright sunlight streamed in. “First, let's get some fresh air in here.” The breeze floated in, balmy and inviting. “There, that's better.” He came back to the bed. “Let's see if we can get you on your feet.”

She pushed herself up slowly from the bed. Treet put an arm around her and lifted her effortlessly. She was nearly as weightless as a shadow. This shocked him more than seeing her in her cataleptic state. “We've got to get some food into your stomach. You're withering away to nothing, and it's a long trek back to Dome.”

Calin moved easily enough once she got going, and Treet knew that she had snapped out of whatever self-induced spell she'd been under. The simple mention of going home had done it. Though he could in no way imagine such an attachment, for Calin the twisted, teeming warrens of Dome were home, and she missed it.