Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (34 page)

“But if we don't anger Jamrog again,” began Piipo, “perhaps—”

“Didn't you hear?” said Cejka, his voice shrill. “Eight hundred Hyrgo and Tanais—and who knows how many others! Jamuna killed and Saecaraz tortured! That's just the beginning.”

Treet felt the tension rise in the room as fear frayed taut nerves and tempers escalated. He glanced at Tvrdy and saw that the Tanais Director felt it too. Tvrdy roused himself. “All right!” he shouted. The room fell silent. “Yes, we feel deeply for those who suffer Jamrog's wrath. But we must not let this divide us or draw us from our task. Let it instead provoke us to greater determination.”

“He's right,” said Cejka, and the tension dissipated at once.

The briefing resumed matter-of-factly, and Treet did not again sense the crippling fear. Tvrdy had, like the adroit leader he was, acted with quick efficiency to defuse a potentially disastrous situation. “Now then,” Tvrdy continued, “in view of the information we have received, I suggest we begin planning another raid.”

As the others turned this unexpected idea over in their heads, Kopetch leaped up. “Yes!” he said. “It is exactly what we need.”

“Wait,” said Piipo cautiously, “we should discuss this first.”

“Of course.” Tvrdy motioned for Kopetch to be seated. “I merely wished to put forth the suggestion. I have no specific plan at this time.”

“But it makes sense,” offered Cejka. “It will keep Jamrog off balance.”

“Forgive me, but I am new to this way of thinking. What would be the aim of this raid?” asked Ernina.

“That remains to be determined. But the effect of the raid would be at least twofold: harassment, as Cejka has suggested; and a demonstration of our ability to move at will throughout Empyrion.”

“This demonstration is important? Important enough to justify the probable loss of life?” asked the physician.

“I believe so. Jamrog must know that he is not in total control.”

“Wouldn't this drive him to further atrocities?”

“Perhaps,” answered Kopetch. “But his anger would also cloud his reason. An angry man makes mistakes—mistakes we could use to our benefit.”

Ernina did not appear convinced by this line of reasoning, but said no more.

“I'm with Ernina,” put in Treet. “I think it's a costly enterprise. Maybe too costly—unless the stakes were raised significantly.” The blank looks of his listeners let Treet know he'd used an obscure figure of speech. “I mean, unless the aim of the raid were of greater importance.”

Cejka joined in. “I agree. The purpose must justify the risk.”

“Your concerns are mine, Hagemen, precisely,” said Tvrdy.

“Would this raid take place soon?” wondered Piipo, who had been whispering to his aides.

“That I can answer with certainty,” Tvrdy replied. “The Trabantonna—”

“The Feast of the Dead!” cried Piipo, “But that's—”

“Not much time,” said Tvrdy calmly. “I know. But it must be during the Trabantonna feasts. We will not have a better chance. The confusion will be a natural cover for our movements.”

“It's the perfect time,” said Kopetch, “to work maximum havoc with minimum risk.”

The briefing ended; the participants filed silently from the room, each preoccupied with private thoughts. Treet, who had promised to help Ernina begin setting up a medical center, watched as the others hurried away to their duties, one thought drumming in his brain: two thousand people are right now suffering for the rebels' actions, and the Fieri are being blamed!

I was right, Treet thought bitterly, seeing the cruel irony of the situation. I came back to try to save the Fieri, and it's through my actions that the Fieri have become involved.

How swiftly had the complexion of the struggle changed. It wasn't a question of personal survival anymore ... it was war.

Except
for two brief and somewhat furtive meetings, Pizzle had not so much as set eyes on Starla for a week. The deprivation was killing him. He moped around the deck of the ship all day and grew distant and morose at night. When he wasn't talking to Anthon, his Mentor, Pizzle was absolutely disconsolate. Nothing short of the thought of an impending visit with his beloved could cheer him up. And since Starla had moved to another ship—ostensibly to keep from torturing Pizzle with her presence, although her absence tortured him just as much—Pizzle was miserable a good deal of the time.

Even the nightly spectacle of the sunshower failed to lift his spirits very much. He lost his appetite, his sense of humor, what little native dignity he'd possessed. He wallowed in his self-pity as if it were a balm to his forlorn soul.

Anthon chose not to notice Pizzle's misery, but diverted him as much as possible with stimulating monologues and discussions pertaining to Fieri life and thought. During these episodes, Pizzle was able to forget himself a little and enjoy the mental exercise. Mentor Anthon was a wise instructor. He spoke as one who contemplated life from a pinnacle of years, although in appearance he seemed only slightly older than Pizzle himself. And despite the sagacity of his thought, from under the dark ridges of his brows glittered bright brown eyes as quick as any delinquent youngster's. In all, he reminded Pizzle of Mishmac the Mahat, a character from Papoon's immortal
Orb of Odin
series.

Pizzle made the most of his opportunities to talk with his Mentor. And they enjoyed one another's company for hours on end. Still, as much time as Anthon gave him, there were too many empty hours. Preben, too, noticed Pizzle's predicament and tried to help by assigning him more duties aboard the ship. But try as he might, Pizzle could not muster more than a lackluster enthusiasm for sailing.

“You must think us very cruel,” Anthon said one day when Pizzle came for his catechism.

“Cruel?” The word took Pizzle aback. He shook his head until his ears wobbled. “Never. No way. Why would you say that?”

“Separating you from your beloved is a painful charge.”

“Yeah,” Pizzle agreed. “I guess so.”

Anthon looked at him for a moment and then said, “Tell me the Prime Virtues in the order of their ascendancy.”

So began the day's lesson, but at least Pizzle knew that his Mentor understood what he was going through. That helped a little. Seeing Starla helped more. Unfortunately, he could only see her when the boats made one of their infrequent landings, and the next one was not scheduled for another five days.

Early the next morning he found Yarden sitting by herself on deck, wrapped in a scarlet blanket. He slumped down beside her and put his hands behind his head, closing his eyes, feeling the warmth of the polished wood on his back. “I don't think I'm going to make it,” he said glumly.

“Welcome to the club,” she said.

Her reply was so uncharacteristic, Pizzle jolted upright. “You, too?”

Yarden didn't answer. She gazed steadily out at the water and at the ragged roots of the mountains gliding by.

“You want to talk about it?” asked Pizzle.

She turned red-rimmed eyes on him. “If I wanted to talk about it, would I be sitting here by myself all night?”

“You sat here all night?”

She nodded, raising a hand to rub her eyes and smooth back her hair.

“What's wrong?” Pizzle's misery had made him a shade more sensitive to others' feelings.

“Everything,” she snapped. “I thought this trip would be something special. More and more, I'm sorry I came.”

“You can say that again.”

She gave him a look he could not read. “I heard about your little trial.”

“You make it sound like I deserve it or something,” Pizzle whined. “I didn't do anything to deserve the way I feel.”

“Calm down. At least you still have Starla.”

“Yeah, and last time I looked, you were all hot on this art stuff.”

“Go away, Pizzle. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Sheesh! Every time I come around it's 'Go away, Pizzle! Go away, Pizzle! I don't want to talk about this, I don't want to talk about that.' How come you're the only one on this planet that gets to have any private feelings? You're always delivering these ultimatums to everybody. Well, I for one am getting tired of it.”

Yarden softened, smiled. “Your ears get pink when you're mad, you know that?”

“Hmmph!”

“I'm sorry, Pizzle. I apologize, okay?”

“Okay,” Pizzle allowed grudgingly. “Us Earthlings ought to stick together.”

“Fair enough,” said Yarden. She was silent a moment, then sighed and said, “It's just that I'm afraid I've made the most dreadful mistake.”

“Treet again?”

Yarden nodded, chin pulled in.

“Pshoo—” Pizzle let air whistle over his teeth. “I don't know what to tell you there.”

“It's all right. I have to work this out for myself.”

Pizzle didn't say anything. The two simply sat together and listened to the rippling water and the canyons echoing with the keening cries of the ever-present rakkes sailing the wind currents among the rock peaks high above. The white sunlight struck the angled cliffs, scattering silvery light off the rocks. The deck rocked gently as the boats, strung in a long, sweeping line, slid relentlessly upriver toward the bay.

“I should have gone with him,” said Yarden softly. It was the first time she had admitted it to herself, but once the words were out she felt the truth in them.

Pizzle took his time responding. “How could you know? I mean, he was far from stable. It sounded so ... so theatrical. Crackpot—you know? I liked the guy, and I still thought the idea was nutso.”

“Liked.
Past tense.”

“Sorry, bad choice of words.”

“You think he's dead, too.”

“Dead?” Pizzle's head turned. “Golly, Yarden, you shouldn't think anything like that.”

“Why not? It's possible, isn't it?”

Pizzle swallowed hard. “Possible,” he allowed cautiously, “but highly improbable.”

“All too probable. Which is why none of us would go back with him.”

“He knew the risks.”

“Yes, he knew the risks and he still went back.” Yarden dropped her head to her updrawn knees. “I've been so incredibly selfish.”

Pizzle watched her for moment. “Preben says the bay is only a week away,” he said, trying to change the subject. “The last few kilometers, however, are overland through the mountains. But there's a pass, so it's an easy climb.”

“I've lived my whole life without regret,” Yarden replied. “Now this.”

“Would it help if you knew he was okay?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Well, you could find out easy enough, couldn't you? I mean, with your mental thing you could find out.” He studied her expression for a moment and added, “You never thought of that?”

“I—no, I couldn't do that to Treet.”

“Why? Afraid of what you'll find?”

She dropped her eyes.

Pizzle climbed slowly to his feet. “I'm hungry. Are you? I smell something cooking below. Want to come down and get some breakfast with me?”

“Ah, no. No, thank you, Asquith.” Yarden raised her head and smiled. “I appreciate what you're trying to do for me. Really. But this is going to take a little time.”

“Sure.” He turned and started away, then paused and turned back. “Look, if you want me for anything I'm here. I mean, if you should want to try contacting him or something. Okay?”

Yarden accepted Pizzle's offer. “Thanks, I won't forget. Us Earthlings ought to stick together.”

“Darn right.”

“We can't do it
this way. It's wrong.” Treet was adamant.

Tvrdy gazed at him with an exasperated expression. “I don't understand you. Jamrog is our enemy—remove him and the Purge is over. It is as simple as that.”

“It is never that simple,” Treet retorted. He looked around the ring of grim faces, yellow in the foul light of a smoking lamp. They were going over the newly revealed details of the Trabantonna raid. It was late, and everyone was tired.

“It's a good plan,” Cejka put in gently. “Tvrdy and Kopetch have spent every minute of the last two days working on it. It's brilliant.”

“It was you,” said Kopetch, “who insisted the purpose of the raid must justify the risk.”

“I wasn't suggesting that we assassinate Jamrog”

“What else is there?” demanded Tvrdy. “We cannot fight the Invisibles and the Nilokerus security forces; we are not ready.”

“It is most expedient,” added Kopetch, fatigue making his voice sharp. “In terms of risk against feasibility and potential reward, it makes perfect sense. Besides, the timing is extremely advantageous.”

“In the whole history of humankind, assassination has never solved anything. It just doesn't work.” Treet growled. “I won't be a part of it.”

“That cannot be helped,” Tvrdy snapped. “The plan is set. Trabantonna begins in two days. Our Tanais and Rumon Hagemen have been informed. Everything is ready. Kopetch is right—it is the best chance we will have for a very long time. And it is the one thing Jamrog will not expect.”

Treet clamped his mouth shut and sat down. The briefing continued, but he was no longer paying attention. There was something very wrong about the planned assassination. The trouble was, he couldn't articulate exactly what made it wrong. As Kopetch maintained, the plan made sense in several solid ways that made Treet's feeble objections seem grossly irrational.

It's a curse, thought Treet, to be suddenly afflicted with a good conscience so late in life. One felt the pangs of righteousness, but was unable to give proper voice to them for lack of the long history of careful, reasoned thought and self-examination necessary for persuasive argument. Without that, all one had left was the emotional discord caused by ruffled scruples.

What was so wrong, really? Removing one man made infinitely more sense than engaging in the slaughter of thousands. In terms of human suffering alone, it was no contest; given a choice between all-out war and the simple assassination of one depraved ruler, assassination won every time.

And yet the idea repulsed Treet. He found it morally repugnant. Assassination was a dirty business, the domain of terrorist subversives and scheming anarchists warped by ideological misanthropy and too cowardly to stand up in the light of day and support their beliefs, however perverse, in honest combat, intellectual or otherwise. No matter how well justified, assassination always tainted its practitioners with its own reeking corruption. And yet, in this particular case perhaps ...