Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (13 page)

The heart stopped beating.

The blood, surging violently around him an instant before, stopped. The thunderous thumping stopped. Everything ceased.

My heart has stopped, he thought; I'm saved! The implication of this struck Treet even as relief overtook him: that means I'm dead!

The irrationality of this paradoxical event shocked Treet. Whoever heard of anyone dying in order to live? Preposterous! I can't be dead, he thought. And yet, if I'm not dead why can't I see? Or hear? Or breathe?

No, there is nothing wrong with me, I'm just sleeping. I'm all right. I will survive. I'll make it. I won't let a little nightmare unhinge me.

The terror, so real only moments before, quickly faded, and a sense of expanding euphoria took its place. Treet drifted in the warmth of the feeling until he realized that it was remarkably similar to another sensation: hunger. This roused him. He had not eaten in some time, except for the handful of beans and the sip of water he'd had in his cell, and who knew how long ago that had been?

Fully awake now, floating in the thick soup of the conditioning tank, Treet decided to again try an experiment he'd been conducting from the moment he'd been lowered into the tank: an experiment in sympathetic awareness. Something Yarden had once told him had come back to him—probably in light of his futile attempt at swaying the tank operator to push the button on the console that would bring him up.

“Are you a sympath?” she had asked him aboard the
Zephyros.
“Some people are natural adepts and do not know it, Mr. Treet. You could be one of them.”

The idea that he might be a sympath had unsettled him for a while after that, though he could not at the time think why. He'd chalked it up to an ambiguous fear of disorder—a man of clear-eyed logic and cold rationality worshiped order and sense. The sympathetic awareness and its sense-defying tendencies frightened him. Treet had always figured that a man needed a firm anchor in reality to survive all the insanity the modern world threw at him.

And so he did. But all of Treet's logic and rationality had not saved him. Here on Empyrion, these things were of little consequence or value, apparently. Therefore, lacking any better weapons, Treet had decided to fight back with the only tool he had—his own mind.

He had intermittently been sending Yarden messages of his demise. Without knowing precisely how the sympathetic awareness worked, he had no real hope that he would be able to receive actual messages from Yarden, but he thought he might be able to nudge her consciousness somehow or otherwise make himself known to her. Once alerted, she would be able to receive his ‘thought impressions’—to use her term. Then it was up to Yarden.

He could not believe that she would be so cold to his plight that she would ignore him. She would come with help ... wouldn't she?

The thought of Yarden coming to him made his heart ache with emptiness. He wished he'd been able to persuade her to return with him. Return to what? he wondered. To this? To capture and mental torture at the hands of their enemies?

No, it was better this way. At least she was free. Even if he had to pay the ultimate price for his foolishness, at least she would be spared joining him. She would never know what became of him.

Hard on this thought came the sobering realization, not for the first time, that if he failed, he would not be the only victim. Unless he found a way to alter the course of events, the relentless flow would carry the Fieri to death and destruction once more. Nuclear holocaust would be repeated as Dome in its unfathomable hatred and stupidity turned against the loving Fieri again—for the second time in fifteen hundred years. If that happened, as he was sure it would, none of his friends would live through it.

More and more, it appeared he would be the first casualty of the hostility. No, sadly, not the first—merely the latest in a long, long crowded line stretching back nearly three millennia.

The futility of his situation stung him. His helplessness mocked him bitterly. So much depended on him, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. Nothing but wait, hold out as long as he could, and hope.

Far
from the cells of Cavern level, Jamrog strolled the secluded pathways of Rohee's private pleasure ground high above Threl Chambers. Mrukk walked beside his master, hands clasped behind him, dressed in the light gray yos the Invisibles wore when in Hage. When prowling through Dome, the Invisibles took the colors of whichever Hage they happened to be passing through, blending in with the Hagemen at will. An easy trick, but always effective.

“What did you observe, Commander?” asked Jamrog placidly. The day before had been the triumph he'd hoped for and more. He'd slept well, after an evening spent entertaining two female companions, and risen early, eager to begin his rule by removing the first obstacles to his total authority.

Mrukk, a brooding hulk of a man, gave a quick sideways flick of his keen eyes—more out of habit than suspicion—and answered in a low voice. “The Directors were all in attendance, as you no doubt have been informed by your Hage priests. The Hages were well represented, and no overt signs of disapproval have been observed or reported.”

Jamrog turned to him. “You don't sound convinced of that. Why?”

“There is an unsubstantiated report that Tvrdy was seen leaving Threl Square alone just after your speech.”

“Hmmm.” Jamrog's eyes narrowed. “Who saw him?”

“One of the Hage priests recognized him and reported it to Nilokerus security. By the time the report reached us, it could not be confirmed. However, his presence was noted when the Tanais returned to Hage, so perhaps the priest was mistaken.”

Jamrog nodded slowly. “It doesn't matter. I do not care to trap the Tanais so easily; I have better plans for him. When I am finished with Tvrdy, his own Hagemen will deny they ever knew him.” Jamrog chuckled easily. He was well on his way to becoming invincible, and after so many years biding his time, waiting in Rohee's shadow, it was a very heady feeling.

Mrukk said nothing; his cold gray eyes stared ahead impassively. The fearsome commander of the Mors Ultima knew Jamrog well and knew how quickly the man's mood could change. But he knew also that he was more than a match for his master. His ruthlessness and cold brutality had been rewarded time and again as he advanced through the ranks to become leader of the elite force of the Invisibles. There was nothing he would not do for his master, true, but his loyalty had its price. He wondered sometimes how much Jamrog was willing to pay.

They walked a little further together, Jamrog frowned in concentration, clenching and unclenching his fists absently, his soft-shod feet whispering on the paving stones. “Commander,” he said after a time, “I want you to see to it that the Invisibles are rewarded for their service yesterday.”

“Of course, Supreme Director. Did you have a sum in mind, or should I use my own discretion?”

“Five hundred shares.”

“Five hundred is very generous, Director,” Mrukk said slyly. “Perhaps a lesser amount would serve as well. Some of the men may not know what to do with so much, seh?”

“Five hundred,” said Jamrog decisively, glancing up quickly. “And make certain they know it is a reward for service. Instruct them that they can expect such rewards from now on—for good service, of course. Poor service will be punished in like manner.”

“I understand, Supreme Director. It will be done immediately.”

“Good,” replied Jamrog. “You may return to your duties. Oh, there is one more detail. Do you remember the discussion we had some time ago about Hladik's usefulness?”

Mrukk's eyes narrowed; a thin smile twitched the corners of his cruel lips. “Of course.”

“I have reason to doubt the Nilokerus Director's sincerity of late.”

“Would you like me to have him watched by one of my men?”

“I think it best. It would not do to begin my rule with anything less than the total confidence and loyalty of all my Directors.” Jamrog dismissed the commander with a gesture and walked on by himself, musing on his various schemes, letting his feet wander where they would among the trimmed hedgeways and flowered paths.

This very pleasure ground was where Rohee had met his death in the form of a cordial, laced with a special poison which Jamrog had concocted.

Sirin Rohee in his last years, weary of ruling and of the spoils of his handsomely exploited position, had taken to spending long hours in his private pleasure grounds—a garden park planted with miniature trees and fragrant flowering shrubbery of every type produced by Hyrgo Hage. It was his habit to spend the afternoon hours walking off his meal amidst the greenery of his park, often with a nubile Hagemate (of either sex; it made no difference at all to Rohee).

He also enjoyed a cordial made from sweetened cherimoyas and distilled souile, which he sipped as he took his daily tour of his gardens—changed continually by Hyrgo growers so that the Supreme Director would not become bored with his favorite pastime. It had been a simple matter to drop the poison into the old man's drink. Jamrog had merely arrived to discuss a bit of business and slipped the powder into the bottle. He'd had his talk and then left.

Later that night, the news of Rohee's unfortunate demise had reached the ambitious Jamrog. The poison, slow acting, though excruciating in its irreversible final stages, had taken effect, and the Supreme Director had died screaming in his bed in the middle of the night, frightening his Hagemate out of her wits. Jamrog had been summoned at once, but it was by then too late. Sirin Rohee was dead. The girl swore no one had been near the old man all day and that he had eaten nothing that she herself had not eaten.

It was not especially important to Jamrog that he remain above suspicion in Rohee's death, merely convenient. The Hage priests would cooperate more readily if they did not have cause to accuse him of muddying the ethereal realms with the negative energy produced by murder. He needed the Hage priests for a special program he planned to institute soon, and their cooperation would be most helpful.

Therefore, when he had examined the problem from all possible angles and had decided that he had no further use for Rohee, he poisoned his old master and established himself in his place. Exactly as he'd planned from the beginning.

Jamrog gave a great sigh of contentment. It was good, and the best was yet to come.

Pizzle lay in bed,
having just passed one of the most baffling nights in his relatively brief but confusing life. In utter chagrin he reviewed the events of the previous evening one by one, examining each moment as it unfolded in his brain, trying to perceive where he'd gone wrong.

Jaire's guests had arrived and he'd been introduced. To his dismay, Starla had not been among them. A few of the guests had expressed interest in Pizzle's impressions of Fierra, and others wanted to hear about his journey. Surprisingly, no one seemed interested in hearing about Dome, or about Earth either. At least these topics were avoided in open discussion. The reason, Pizzle guessed, was because Dome, and Earth also for all he knew, held negative associations for the Fieri.

It wasn't that they forbade hearing about such things, or made it a rule to avoid them, but more that they did not wish to entertain anything of a negative nature for any length of time. This was why the facts of their arrival on Empyrion and their sojourn in Dome had been described only once—at an appropriate time before the assembled Mentors. Nothing more was said after that. There was no inquisition, no endless sessions of debriefing, no covert poking and prodding into the visitors' intentions or motives in coming.

This was the real corker for Pizzle. He'd expected a completely different response. On Earth, alien space travelers would have been instantly quarantined and subjected to endless inquiry and study. It was like Treet had said: “Our reception at Dome made more sense.”

The Fieri were not fainthearted, Pizzle thought. And they didn't appear prudish in their approach to life. They just weren't interested in hearing about Dome. As it had been expressed to him by Mathiax one day, “What good can come of contemplating darkness?”

For the Fieri, darkness was a force always active, always encroaching on the light, and therefore always to be resisted in whatever form it took at the moment. Not ordinarily given to strong conviction himself, Pizzle nevertheless found himself admiring the Fieri devotion. But the way he felt now, it was hard
not
to admire everything about the race that had produced his beloved. If for no other reason, Pizzle would have adored the Fieri
en masse
for the one noble achievement of rearing a daughter so fair.

While he related the facts of his desert journey and consequent rescue by a Fieri airship—aided, of course, by his own ingenious signal device and his heroic actions, which he never failed to mention—he watched the room's entrance for Starla's appearance. She did not appear. Nor did she arrive during his monologue about his impressions of their amazing city.

Jaire had called them to the table, and the gathering drifted leisurely to the dining room. Pizzle, frankly disappointed, had decided to make the best of it by seating himself between two charming Fieri women. He had just settled in his chair and turned to the dinner companion on his left and ...there, in the arched doorway, stood Starla, talking to a young man who was holding her tightly by the hand.

Pizzle's heart lurched; he felt as if he were a gourd that had just had its insides scooped out. He turned his eyes away quickly and sat down before she saw him looking at her, then clamped his mouth shut so hard his jaws ached. His eyesight blurred and he sat through the entire meal without looking to his left, where
she
sat toward the end of the table. He could hear her voice, now and again, talking in intimate tones with her escort. His ears burned, and his mind seethed.

Jaire served the meal—smiling, gracious, oblivious to his pain. He longed for the torture to be over so he could flee to the solace of his room and take up once more his foreordained solitary existence. Starla had obviously deceived him, leading him on with no intention of following through. Probably she thought the whole thing a great joke at his expense, a game to satisfy her idle curiosity. Sure, that's all he meant to her: an oddity from another planet, a freak, a conversation piece, something to tell her grandchildren about: My date with a Space Geek.