Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (33 page)

A sense of hopelessness stole over him. What was the use? Dome's problems were legion. What could one man do?

“Cynetix,” said Bogney, fingering the image.

“Huh?” Treet stirred.

“Cynetix,” Bogney repeated, and the Dhogs pressed closer, muttering the name softly.

Treet nodded. “Yes, Cynetics.”

Bogney raised a hand and patted the air, as if to flatten it. The Dhogs understood the gesture and sat down on the ground. Pointing to the image once more, Bogney said, “Cynetix. Dhogs hearing Fieri man telling now.” He then sat down cross-legged with the rest, and they all looked up expectantly at Treet.

Treet gazed around him. What can I tell them? he wondered. They think this winged man is Cynetics, a god. They think
I'm
a god of some sort. How would they ever understand?

Looking at their earnest eyes, Treet again felt the strange, burning-face sensation he'd felt in Ernina's hospital. The Infinite was still with him, within him. The presence stirred, and the hopelessness vanished. In its place appeared a word of comfort: It's not up to you to solve Dome's problems—only to do your part, and do it as well as you can.

Very well. Here then was one thing he could do. He could tell the Dhogs about their history and what was happening in the world outside the Old Section; he could sow the seeds of truth. He had no sooner framed the thought than the words began making their way to his tongue; so, adopting the mythical language of the storyteller, he began.

“In the old time there were giants who lived far away beyond the stars. The biggest giant of all was Cynetics, and he was very big. The world where he lived, Earth, grew too small for him, so he turned his eyes to the sky one night and he saw this world.”

The Dhogs murmured at this and nodded, hunkering down like children to better hear the story. Treet didn't know how much they understood of his speech, but figured the sound of his voice was what mattered most anyway.

“Cynetics said to himself,” Treet continued, “I will send my sons there to make a new place for me to live. So, riding in a—ah, sky em—the sons of Cynetics came to Empyrion and flew over the land until they came to this place, and they said, 'Here we will make our home.' And they built a city and named it Empyrion. They filled their city with people, and the city prospered.

“One day, when the city was still new, the Red Death came, and the sons of Cynetics died. Men and women, young and old alike, everyone died, for nothing could stop the Red Death. The people struggled; they fought for life and a few survived, but the city was broken.” The Dhogs were hushed, taking in the story in awed silence. “The city was broken into two pieces. Both were Cynetics' children, but they quarreled over how to rebuild the city.

“In the heat of the quarrel, the sons who had taken the name Fieri were cast out. Those who remained here raised high walls and sealed the city with crystal, forever shutting out their brothers. They became Dome.

“The Fieri wandered the world and grew strong in the open air. The day came when they stopped wandering and built their own city, called Fierra. It was a magnificent city, a city of wonders untold. And the Fieri grew great in the land.

“Many long years passed, and the people of Dome saw the greatness of the Fieri and grew jealous. Their jealousy turned to hate, and they rose up against the Fieri and killed them with a fire that burned even the stones.

“The dome dwellers rejoiced, believing they had rubbed out all the Fieri, but a few lived on, even as the Old Ones lived on after the Red Death. The Fieri who survived the all-consuming fire traveled far away and built another city by the sea—that is, a great water. They renamed their new city Fierra and said to themselves, 'Nevermore will we go to our brothers in Dome, for we will not forget what they have done to us.'

“In time, the Fieri grew strong once again and became very wise, and the new Fierra became greater even than the first city.” Here Treet paused, uncertain of where to go with his tale. He looked out on the upturned faces, alert, intent. He saw the flicker of hope in the dull gray eyes and understood the power he now held. The Dhogs trusted him. Their trust gave him unquestioned authority over them. The next words he spoke would determine how he used that authority and power.

“Many long years have passed,” said Treet slowly. “And once again the rulers of Dome are preparing to make war on the Fieri. I have come to try to stop them.” He turned and regarded the winged man carved into the gray stone. “Cynetics is far away. He does not hear his sons anymore, and he cannot help us. It is up to us to help ourselves.”

From the astonished stares of his hearers Treet saw the revolution these last words had stirred. He decided he'd said enough for the moment, so stepped from the wall and made his way through the crowd still seated on the ground.

The
afternoon light through Dome's great crystal panes shimmered over the green fields as, their day's work done, the Hyrgo began descending from the terraces to make their way back to their kraams. The workers wound down the zigzag path between the tiered fields leading to the broad boulevard at the bottom of the valley, heading back to deep Hage and their suppers, talking quietly among themselves in the slow, patient Hyrgo way.

A group of about thirty workers reached the lower field and proceeded along the boulevard. They had not gone more than a hundred meters when they were met by a band of Invisibles.

The Hyrgo fell silent, moving ahead hesitantly. As the first of the Hyrgo approached, the Invisibles fanned out across the boulevard. “Halt!” shouted the Invisibles' commander, a Mors Ultima in glistening black.

The Hyrgo stopped at once, looking fearfully at one another.

“What is the trouble, please?” asked the foremost Hyrgo, a fourth-order tender.

“Shut up!” yelled the Invisible. “Against the wall!” He shoved the foreman toward the rimwall.

Weapons appeared in the Invisibles' hands and the Hyrgo backed to the wall, eyes wide, mouths quivering in mute protest.

“What is this?” cried the Hyrgo foreman. “We have done nothing. We are field tenders.”

The Mors Ultima stepped up and slashed the man across the mouth with the butt of the weapon in his hand. The Hyrgo workers gasped. Blood dribbled over the injured Hyrgo's chin and down the front of his yos. He fell back with a whimper.

“Get moving!” ordered the Invisible in charge. The stunned Hyrgo did not move, so his men leapt to action and began driving the Hagemen back along the boulevard.

“Where are you taking us?” demanded the Hyrgo foreman through bleeding lips.

The Mors Ultima stepped close and struck him against the side of the head with the weapon. The Hyrgo went down. Two Invisibles sprang forward, hauled him to his knees, and dragged him away. Other Hyrgo coming down from the fields appeared along the rimwall. “Go to your kraams,” shouted the Mors Ultima, “or else follow your Hagemen to reorientation.”

The frightened Hyrgo hurried away, letting their Hagemen go without a word.

At the Hyrgo checkpoint, the group was held until large multi-passenger ems arrived; then they were pushed aboard, and the vehicles whisked them away to the reorientation center on Cavern level deep in Hage Nilokerus. There, along with prisoners from other Hages—they saw the turquoise-and-silver of Chryse, the blue hood and hem of Bolbe, and the red stripes of Rumon—they were crowded into newly constructed holding pens. Women were crying hysterically and men stood dazed, wringing their hands and staring.

“What is happening here?” asked the Hyrgo foreman of a fourth-order Chryse.

“Reorientation,” replied the Chryse flatly. “What else?”

“I don't understand. We were taken from the fields. We have done nothing.”

The Chryse shook his head and spat. “Haven't you heard? The Supreme Director is angry with the Chryse and Hyrgo—you for letting the grain be stolen, us for letting the thieves pass through our Hage.”

“But it was Dhogs. We had nothing to do with it.”

The Chryse lifted his shoulders. “Does that matter?”

“I see Bolbe here—what of them?”

“I don't know. They claim they have done nothing, but it's clear they must have violated the Clear Way or they wouldn't be here.”

Just then Nilokerus security guards came to the holding pen and began pulling people out—the Hyrgo foreman among them. He was taken into the central admitting area, a huge cylindrical room aswarm with people. He was made to stand in a long line before a desk behind which sat four hooded Nilokerus, their faces green in the light of data screens.

When his turn finally came, he was prodded to the desk by a guard with a long, flexible rod. “Name,” said the Nilokerus at the terminal. He glanced up from the screen. “Give me your name.”

“Grensil,” replied the Hyrgo.

“Cell N-34K,” said the Nilokerus. “Next.”

“Wait!” shouted the Hyrgo. “What have I done? You must tell me what I have done.”

“Take him away,” grunted the guard. “Next!”

The rod jabbed him in the ribs, and the Hyrgo foreman was prodded into one of the long corridors radiating out from the central admitting area. The corridor was crowded with guards and prisoners, and they shoved their way through to the cell. When the unidor snapped off, the Hyrgo was pushed forward. He threw his hands out and gripped the stone, holding himself back. The rod smashed his fingers again and again until he let go and, to a chorus of curses, tumbled into the cell.

Inside there were six men—six men in a space designed for only one. No one could stand upright, and there was not room for them to sit down. So they squatted against one another, shifting their weight painfully and cursing. The air was foul with the odor of vomit and urine. One of the men, a Rumon, at the back of the cell was bleeding from facial wounds; he muttered incoherently, his head lolling back and forth.

Grensil settled into the crush of bodies and was elbowed sharply as he tried to fit himself into the too small space. Lightheaded, reeling with the horror of what was happening to him, the Hyrgo closed his eyes, muttering, “Trabant take me, I am dead.”

The night's dispatch had
brought a thick file of information. Upon arrival, Tvrdy had awakened to spend the early hours deciphering it. Now, as the others gathered for the morning briefing, the Tanais Director sat gray-faced, hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes, waiting to begin.

Cejka was the first to arrive, followed by Piipo with two of his aides, and Kopetch. Treet shambled in, greeted everyone, and sat down in a corner by himself. Ernina arrived, spoke a few words to Tvrdy, and took her seat. Giloon Bogney strutted in last, two odious Dhogs on his heels. They sat down front and center, and Giloon craned his neck around, saying, “All here now. We begin.”

Tvrdy raised himself slowly to his feet, passing a hand through his hair. “This came in during the night,” he said, thumping the file reader in his hand. “It isn't good.”

“Tell us everything,” said Cejka. The others mumbled their assent.

“The retaliation is worse than we expected. At last count, upwards of eight hundred Hyrgo have been arrested and taken to reorientation—”

“No-o,” Piipo groaned.

“Nearly as many Tanais,” Tvrdy continued, “and about a hundred Bolbe have been taken as well.”

“Rumon?” asked Cejka.

“There are two hundred Rumon missing—although no rumor messengers, so far. Seventy-five Chryse have been taken. Numbers are not available for the other Hages, but all are presumed to have been affected. There are reports of Nilokerus and Saecaraz being tortured—probably for failure to apprehend us in the raid. Also, Jamuna have been killed outright by Mors Ultima; Jamuna Director Bouc is in hiding. These are unsubstantiated reports at present, but it appears Jamrog is being very thorough in his retaliation.”

“The monster,” muttered Ernina. “How can he justify this—this outrage?”

“The official explanation,” Tvrdy replied, “is that the Fieri have infiltrated Empyrion and are determined to seize power. This is what Jamrog has ordered the Directors to tell the Hages. Before the retaliation started, he convened a special session of the Threl and bullied them into approving his emergency security measures. The checkpoints have been strengthened and an official curfew imposed. Invisibles are patrolling the main entry and exit routes between Hages during curfew hours, and they have set up interrogation cells throughout.

“Also, he has granted priests authority to act as informants for reward. Predictably, they are quick to accuse and collect for any imagined crime.”

“It isn't hard to see where this will lead,” said Cejka. “No one will be safe from their greed.”

“We could use that,” pointed out Kopetch. “Don't we have a priest or two we might persuade?”

“Yes,” confirmed Tvrdy. “See me after the briefing.” He glanced down at the file reader and thumbed the scanner window. “Invisibles are searching Hage Chryse for the entrance to the Old Section. We'll have to seal that entrance and use the others from now on.”

“That's to be expected,” offered Cejka.

“Here is something unexpected: food rations are being cut, and work hours extended to meet increased production quotas. The Archives have been opened to Nilokerus and Saecaraz magicians—”

“I ran into them,” put in Treet.

“What does it mean?” asked Piipo.

“Jamrog is readying himself for a fight,” explained Kopetch. “He is attempting to create a surplus from which to stockpile supplies. When he feels he has enough to sustain a protracted battle, he will strike.”

“But—the Archives?”

“They're searching for weapons,” said Treet. “From the old time.”

“He's probably right,” affirmed Tvrdy. “They may succeed.”

“We can't let that happen,” said Cejka. “We would be defenseless.”

“Obviously he is moving faster than we anticipated,” said Tvrdy. “We're going to have to become active sooner than we planned.”

“That, or use our Hage forces,” said Kopetch.

“We must not endanger our Hagemen,” said Piipo.

“They are already in danger,” snapped Kopetch. “All of Empyrion is in danger.”