Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (32 page)

“What makes you say that? With guards asleep at checkpoints and Invisibles unable to follow even an old woman, they had all the help they required.”

Jamrog spun the bhuj in his hands and with a swipe that indicted them all, he said, “I tell you, Hagemen, I will tolerate no more failure. Do you understand me? I find myself forced to take emergency measures for the good of Empyrion.”

“Emergency measures?” asked Osmas.

“These will be announced shortly. I have convened a special session of the Threl this afternoon, and I will present my plan then.” He paused and stared into the distance momentarily, then tapped the bhuj on the floor. “But I have something for you three, too, never fear. I want every Invisible involved in the fiasco punished. I want the guard doubled at each checkpoint. I want the entrance to the Old Section found, and I want the Dhogs routed out and slaughtered. I want Tvrdy and Cejka apprehended and brought before a Threl tribunal to answer for their crimes before they face execution.”

His eyes narrowed as he gazed at his coterie. “Oh, yes, and I want the Fieri found. I want him found and brought back to me at once.”

Diltz, ignoring the consequences of affronting the Supreme Director, asked, “Why is this Fieri so important to you? How do we know the Fieri even exist anymore?”

Jamrog allowed himself a fierce smile. “Don't you see it, Diltz? It should be obvious to all of you. The Fieri are behind the disruption we are experiencing. The Fieri are fomenting rebellion; they are inciting the Dhogs.”

The three shifted uneasily.

Jamrog continued, “I imagine that when we get to the bottom of this, we will find the Fieri have been involved from the beginning. Rohee was a fool. He believed they had come in goodwill, believed he could learn something from them. But it's clear that they want only what they have always wanted: Empyrion's downfall.

“History repeats its lessons from time to time, Hagemen. We are witnessing the first attempts by the Fieri to establish themselves once more within our midst. This time, however, we will be ready. This time we will be vigilant. We will strike before they can gain their full strength. We will search them out and destroy them before they destroy us.” Jamrog, who had been momentarily carried away by his speech, came to himself and concluded, “I want the Fieri found before he can do any more harm. I want him, Hagemen.”

With that, Jamrog left the kraam, taking his bodyguard with him and leaving the three chastised followers glowering at one another.

Osmas was the first to speak. “This is your fault, Mrukk. If you—”

“Watch your tongue, little man.”

Diltz spoke as if to himself. “These Fieri interest me. I must find out more about them.”

“Fieri!” Osmas snorted. “There are no Fieri. They are something Rohee imagined in his dotage.”

“You're wrong,” said Mrukk. “I saw him. He was like us, but unlike us.”

“A Dhog.”

“No. He was no Dhog.”

“One of Tvrdy's agents then, or Cejka's.”

Mrukk shook his head. “I was there the day they arrived.”

“They?” wondered Diltz.

“There were four. With my own eyes I saw the airship. I saw the scorch marks on the platform. I gave the order to take them.”

“Airship?” wondered Osmas. “I never heard anything about a Fieri airship.”

“Rohee demanded secrecy. He had the airship destroyed, and the Fieri were given psilobe to deaden their memories. Then he stupidly had them hidden in Hage—all except one. He kept one for himself.”

“What happened then?” asked Diltz, fascinated.

“Tvrdy got them. He hoped to use them to take over the Threl. But Jamrog intervened, and we moved in before they could mount their attack. They were forced to retreat. They escaped through the Archives doors to the outside.”

“Outside?” Osmas reeled in amazement.

“Extraordinary,” said Diltz. “Where did they go?”

“To the southeast. We lost sight of them in the hills.”

“You didn't pursue them?”

“What was the point? They had no weapons and were fleeing for their lives. They could do nothing.”

“But now one of them, at least, has returned,” said Diltz. “They seem most insistent.”

Mrukk shrugged. “We will capture him again. And this time he will not escape.”

Treet's
first impression of the Old Section was that he had entered a life-sized, three-dimensional representation of a Hieronymus Bosch painting: a chaotic postapocalypse world—fire-gutted and crumbling, vermin-infested ruins through which scrabbled half-naked creatures that may once have been human.

Refuse moldered in reeking mounds piled high in the center of the main square surrounded by charred and twisted trunks of trees. Pale, sickly weeds squeezed up through cracks in the wildly tilting paving stones. The air was rank and stale, the yellowed light weak. The few desolate facades still standing were blackened by soot and time.

The Old Section was clearly older than the rest of Dome. The architecture was different—more like contemporary utilitarian architecture back on Earth: permastone slabs and fibersteel girders, plastic sheathing over industrial foam—all of it arranged in the standard honeycomb fashion of interlocking square boxes. The only variation Treet could see was that here and there the design had been augmented by native stone. A few wrecks showed signs of a developing indigenous architecture quite different from the stark, no-nonsense constructions around them.

Treet realized he was seeing back in time to the earliest days of the Cynetics colony. He imagined the young colony alive and thriving, building a glorious future on a paradise planet. The hope these people must have felt, the dreams they must have had for themselves and their children were now ruined and sinking into filth. The ruins had the stink of age, that oppressive sour smell of a thing too long removed from fresh air and sunlight.

Here the Red Death had forever changed the destiny of the colony. No, he reminded himself, not the Red Death alone. That had been a factor certainly, but there were others. A massive failure of nerve perhaps chief among them. Where had the men of vision gone, the men of bold ideas? Why had the voices of wisdom and intelligence been silenced? What had become of the courageous women who with their gentle, steady hands anchor all around them against the chaos? Were there no young people burning with impatience and idealism to challenge the status quo?

The ruins knew, and Treet could guess. In a word: fear. Paradise had turned against the settlers—apparently through their own carelessness—and the resulting disaster had so demoralized the survivors that they were paralyzed by fear. They had become afraid to dream again, afraid to act, afraid to trust their own best instincts and those of their fellow survivors. Afraid to live again.

Empyrion's bright promise had faded, and darkness rushed in to crush out the trembling light forever.

Now all that remained of the original colony was a blasted shell inhabited by the subhuman nonbeings. As Treet passed through the Old Section, Dhogs, their tattered remnants of clothing fluttering like feathers, flitted among the refuse heaps like great scavenger birds scrounging for scraps and morsels. Scruffy, malnourished children bawled like stray animals, their tears making muddy rivulets down stained cheeks.

The Dhogs were a noisome bunch, and Treet could hardly stand to be near them. The odor was such that a few whiffs could make his stomach unsteady. He recoiled from contact with the Dhogs and tried to avoid them without giving offense, which was difficult because, as Ernina had predicted, among the Dhogs he was revered to the point of outright worship.

The first day the rumor had spread that a Fieri was among the newcomers. That night hundreds of Dhogs had gathered silently outside the building where he'd been given a room. The crowd waited all night, hoping for a glimpse of him.

The mad flight to the Old Section had sapped most of Treet's strength. It took a couple days of bedrest for him to recuperate enough to feel like getting up and moving around again. On his first venture out, he discovered the uncanny effect he had on the masses. People followed him wherever he went—politely, at a distance, murmuring to themselves. But if he stopped long enough, they would become bold and put their hands on him, touch his skin, pinch his flesh as if to reassure themselves of his corporeality.

As uncomfortable as that made Treet feel—being worshiped by a rabble of reeking scavengers—he accepted that it was necessary, even desirable for the time being. After his first encounter, Treet had spoken to Tvrdy about it. “Shouldn't we tell them I'm not a Fieri?” he had asked.

“Why? It does no harm, and it might be a useful thing when the time comes.”

“When the time comes for what?”

“To stir these people to action.”

“The Dhogs? You're not serious. You don't mean—”

“Mean to use them? Certainly I do.”

“But they're hopeless. Look at them—they can hardly feed and clothe themselves. What could they do against Invisibles?”

“Don't misjudge them. They are shrewd and capable within certain limits. They have survived for centuries in this festering pest-hole. Besides, we have begun training the more able-bodied—that is what the food is for. And soon we will begin feeding the rest.”

“Fattening the lambs for the slaughter, is that it?”

Tvrdy did not understand the metaphor, so Treet explained, “I mean, I don't see how you can ask them to fight for you.”

“Not for me, for themselves. Do you think Jamrog will forget what happened? For years he has been laying plans to attack the Old Section and exterminate the Dhogs. Now there is nothing to stop him. He will come. Sooner or later we will all have to defend ourselves or be killed.” Here Tvrdy stopped and grinned unexpectedly; he placed a hand on Treet's shoulder. “Besides, I won't be the one to ask them to fight.”

Treet stiffened. “Who then?” He already had a pretty good idea who.

“The Fieri will ask them.”

So Treet had grudgingly become the resident Fieri, and tried to keep a low profile, staying out of sight as much as possible. But then something happened to make him more sensitive to his delicate position.

The morning of his fifth day among the Dhogs, he had attended the morning briefing session with Tvrdy and the others. There he and Ernina had been introduced to the mechanics of the rebellion; he had then related what had taken place on his mission to the Fieri. Although it hurt him to tell it, he had ended by saying, “We can expect no help from the Fieri. I tried very hard to convince them, but they are prevented by a sacred vow of nonaggression from entering this struggle—even for a good cause.”

Treet did not say that this vow had come about because Dome had wiped out the Fieri cities with nuclear weapons, reducing their fair civilization to radioactive waste, and therefore the Fieri were understandably shy about involving themselves in the perverse machinations of Dome politics. He did not say that the
only
reason he himself had returned was to try to prevent it from happening again.

Treet's unhappy news had been greeted with calm acceptance, and he guessed that no one had really expected any help from the Fieri. It had been a long shot, after all. No one knew that better than Treet—just surviving the desert had been remarkable enough in the Dome dwellers' eyes.

After the briefing ended, a swarthy little hobgoblin had come up to Treet, thumped himself on the chest, and said, “Giloon Bogney.”

“Orion Treet,” he replied.

“Come, Giloon show you Old Section.”

Tvrdy had been looking on and nodded his encouragement, so Treet had agreed. Bogney led him out, and they were quickly surrounded by Dhogs. The Dhog leader waded through his people, pulling Treet along with him, and they struck off across the refuse-piled New America Square. The tour became a parade—more people joining the procession as it wound through the jumbled, beaten-earth pathways.

They stopped from time to time for Bogney to point out some item of local interest. The Dhog's speech was so deteriorated that Treet caught scarcely any of what was said. He nodded a good deal and looked bemused. Finally they stopped before a wall—most of which was lying in collapsed sections under the low roof of dirt-and-smoke filmed crystal.

The wall was made of gray Empyrion stone, cut and fitted into place without mortar. It stood to just over Treet's head, though the top row of capstones was missing. In all it was fairly unremarkable, except for the feature Bogney indicated with his grubby hand.

Carved into the stone was the image of a winged man with his hair tied back in a long braid and wearing a flowing robe. The man's wings were stretched wide on either side of his body, with broad feathers radiating out behind him. A mysterious amulet hung on the thick chest. The head was in profile, and with a blinding shock of recognition, Treet remembered where he'd seen those same straight, angular features:

On a door nearly eleven light-years away, back on Earth, in Houston. The door to Chairman Neviss' office suite.

Treet gawked at the
chiseled image. It was rather crudely done, but clearly recognizable and the subject so unique there could be no mistake. The artist whose hands had created the likeness had seen the very doors Treet had seen—three thousand years ago by Empyrion reckoning.

He reached a hand to the stone and traced the work with his fingertips, marveling at the mix of emotions roiling inside him: awe, despair, loneliness, and other feelings too obscure to decipher. I am the only one who knows what happened, he thought. I am the only one. He felt immensely old and burdened just then—as if the knowledge he held inside him was an enormous weight he had carried a lifetime.

He gazed at the carved image, and it occurred to Treet that both he and the nameless sculptor had stood in the same spot and admired the Chairman's doors back on Earth—a place Empyrion's present inhabitants did not even remember.

This seemed incredibly significant to Treet, until he thought about it. What did it mean really? What did it tell him that he did not already know?

In the end, nothing.