Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (40 page)

“And the Invisibles now know one of our entrances,” pointed out Cejka.

“It is sealed,” offered Piipo.

“How long do you think that will stop them?”

“He's right,” said Tvrdy. “We've got to destroy the rest of the duct. We'll do it today.”

“Not enough,” said Bogney, speaking up. “Deathmen now be coming for us here.” He turned around again, away from the others.

“We don't have enough supplies to hide here indefinitely,” said Piipo.

“Getting our men back in fighting shape will take time,” Cejka said.

“We weren't ready,” replied Tvrdy, mostly to himself. “I was too anxious ... too arrogant ...”

“We all wanted it as badly as you,” Cejka said. “We couldn't know Danelka would be taken. We underestimated Mrukk.”

“It will not happen again,” said Tvrdy. “I can promise you that.” He paused and drew a hand over his face. “We're all tired. I suggest we get some rest and meet back here tonight to begin picking up the pieces.”

Treet shuffled out with the others, feeling particularly useless and overlooked. Is there nothing I can do to help the cause? he wondered. Why am I here?

The
forest had been thinning for two days, becoming less dense with every kilometer. The big cat walked easily beside the man, both as soundless as the shadows they passed through. They had awakened early a few days ago to a restlessness, a tingling sense of necessity to be moving, traveling. Taking up his spear, Crocker left the sheltered bower, following the cat, and they began walking.

They ate when hungry, satisfied their thirst in cool forest pools and muddy streams, slept when they grew tired. But hour by hour they pushed deeper into the forest, moving further westward, following the nameless urge.

With every step, a long-forgotten sense of anticipation quickened in Crocker. He felt as if he would see something very important around the next turn, or the next.

There was no frustration in the expectation when, as he rounded the next bend, only more blue forest presented itself to view. Instead, Crocker experienced a continual sense of assurance: when he reached his journey's end, he would be rewarded. It was not a thought, but a strong undercurrent of the same expectation. So he continued on, unhurriedly, even as the anticipation grew moment by moment.

From the jerk of the wevicat's tail, the man knew his feline companion sensed the growing anticipation, too. From time to time, as the cat ranged further ahead, it would stop and look back at the slower human, then watch him with large, luminous eyes full of sly intelligence as if to say: Hurry! There is little time. Something's going to happen. We must not miss it.

The boats reached the
headwaters of the Taleraan at sunset. The Fieri disembarked to spend the night on shore—a rock shelf cut between two sheer canyons. Tomorrow they would make the journey by foot up through the mountain pass and down again to the lowlands and the Bay of Talking Fish, reaching it by dusk.

On shore Pizzle walked with his Mentor, Anthon, gazing at the canyon cliffs high above and at the sky beyond, taking on the color of iron. As they passed along the long line of boats moored in the shallows, Pizzle kept one eye peeled for a glimpse of Starla while Anthon instructed his charge in the protocol of approaching the talking fish.

“The fish really talk?” Pizzle inquired.

“Oh, yes,” Anthon assured him. “But you must know how to listen, and you must be ready.”

“How? How do you get ready?”

“Their speech is of a delicate, subtle kind—not really speech at all, since it has no words. Naturally, since this faculty is shared between two entirely different species, it is not at all strange to expect it to be so.”

“But what do they say—however they say it?”

Anthon laughed. “They don't
say,
they
communicate.”

“Pure communication—is that what you're telling me?” Pizzle accepted Anthon's nod. “But communication must be about
something,
or it's not communication at all.”

“Precisely, or we would never have called them talking fish.” Anthon's brow wrinkled in an effort to put words to the enigma of the talking fish—something the Fieri had long ago given up trying to do, preferring simply to accept the phenomenon. “They communicate ...” Anthon said, straining after words, “sense impressions; they communicate their experience of the world. The talking fish communicate themselves. That's why you have to know how to listen, or you'll never hear it.”

Pizzle shook his head. “I still don't get it. What am I supposed to do? Meditate?”

“Precisely!” said Anthon. “You meditate, fill your heart with thoughts of goodness, of truth, of joy. You draw the fish to you by the quality of your thought. You prepare a place for the fish to come to you.”

“I see. So I'm sitting there thinking all kinds of beautiful thoughts, and this fish swims up, and if he likes what he sees we have a chat. Is that it?”

Anthon laughed again. His laugh, like his manner, was gentle, understanding. “Yes, that's the sense of it.”

“But do I say anything? Or do I just listen?”

“Whatever you feel,” Anthon told him. “Most people prefer just to listen. That is enough.”

“Hmmm.” Pizzle frowned in concentration. “I think I'm getting it now. Forgive me, I'm not usually this dense.”

“It's more difficult to explain than it is to do,” admitted Anthon, placing a friendly hand on Pizzle's shoulder. “It's the same with so many things in life. We hinder ourselves with our fears and concerns when all that is needed is trust and faith.”

“Believe that the fish will speak and they'll speak—something like that?”

“Something like that.”

“When will the fish come? Will we have to wait long?”

“Not long. A day perhaps. At most, three.” Anthon saw Pizzle's involuntary grimace and added, “But you won't mind waiting. The bay is beautiful. You will enjoy yourself. Besides, since everyone will be together on the beach, I don't see any reason why you and Starla should be apart.”

“Terrific! You mean it? Wow, this is tremendous! Thanks, Anthon. You're aces!”

Anthon shook his head in bemusement. “The things you say, Asquith. Earth must be a very strange place indeed if everyone talks as you do.”

They walked along a little further, and Pizzle gazed at the wide river stretching out before them, calm and deep, now shimmering with the reflected light of the sunstone cliffs, like captured sunset. The Fieri around them readied the evening meal, and smoke began drifting along the water's edge as music, light and tinkling like delicate cut glass, lifted into the darkening sky.

“It's so peaceful,” remarked Pizzle. “I love this life.”

Anthon heard the wistfulness in his voice. “Your life was very different on Earth?”

“Very different.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Miss it?” Pizzle glanced at the Mentor quickly. “No, not at all. I never even think about it. Why would I? Back on Earth I was nothing—a cog in the corporate wheel, a nameless drone. All I did was shove printouts from one side of a plastic desk to the other, siphoning numbers off and putting them on other printouts. It was hell.”

He sighed at the futility of it. “No, I don't miss it. Everything I ever dreamed of is here—it's paradise. I'm surprised you even understand an emotion like longing, you know?”

“How so? Are we so fulfilled we cannot long for ultimate perfection?”

Pizzle shrugged. “I don't miss it at all. Should I? I mean, I'm happier here than I ever was back there. Here ... it's like a dream I never want to end, you know? I want it to go on and on forever.”

“You speak of paradise,” said Anthon. “This isn't paradise, Asquith. The life you speak of is found only in the Infinite Father. If Empyrion is good, its goodness is only a reflection of the greater goodness of the Creator.”

“I don't care where it comes from,” replied Pizzle. “I just know that's what I want.” They were silent for while. Upon reaching the last of the Fieri ships, they turned and started back. “Anthon?” said Pizzle. “Tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“Is it true—all you say about the Infinite Father?”

“There is a truth greater than we know, Asquith. This greater truth is the Infinite. We cannot know it; we can only get snatches, fleeting glimpses of it. But it is there. It exists. In fact, all that exists moves and lives in it.” He paused, and added, “However, I can offer no proof for this assertion.”

“I believe you,” said Pizzle, “but not because of anything you could say.”

“Oh!”

“No. That's all good stuff, you understand. But it makes sense to me because I know I'm a better person now, believing it, or trying to, than I ever was before. You know?”

Anthon put his arm around Pizzle's shoulders. “You have a freshness about you that does this old soul good. Yes, I know what you mean. Experience does often reflect its source. It is proof of a sort.”

They walked back along the river and came to one of the large fires that had been made at intervals on the bank. Fish roasted on spits arched over the shimmering pyramid of flames. In the coals, wrapped in bundles of wet leaves, fresh-gathered vegetables steamed. The aroma melted into the air, piquant and tantalizing. Pizzle and Anthon sat down among the others gathered there as the first spit was taken down.

Pizzle ate, enjoying the close kinship of the Fieri, feeling very much a part of it himself. But after he had satisfied his hunger, he excused himself and got up to wander back to the boat.

There would be no sunshower tonight; the air was too clear and still. Instead, the Light Mountains gave forth a steady warm glow that reminded Pizzle of the lights of a city seen from a distance on a clear night.

He went up the gangplank and stretched out on the empty deck to watch the stars come out. Tomorrow they would reach the Bay of Talking Fish, and he would be with Starla. But tonight he wanted to be alone with his thoughts—to let himself wander in his mind toward the truth Anthon spoke of. This night he felt closer to it than ever before, and he wanted to savor that closeness, and to increase it if he could.

Mostly, he just wanted to be alone and experience the sensation of solitude devoid of loneliness—something quite rare for him. The experience reflects its source, he thought. You can tell the tree by its fruit. Now where had he heard that?

When
the boats reached the mooring place, Yarden did not stir. She remained below in her berth. In fact, she did not attend the last of the art classes that day either. And when Ianni told her that Gerdes had asked about her, she merely shrugged and said she hadn't felt like going.

“You've been withdrawn the last few days,” Ianni told her. “I've noticed. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” said Yarden. “It's something I've got to work out myself.”

“You look as if you are in pain, Yarden. Perhaps I could help.”

“No ... thank you, no. I'd rather be alone.”

Ianni had left her then and Yarden had stayed there, listening to the voices of the Fieri as they left the ships and began preparing for their last night on the river. Tomorrow they would begin the trek through the mountains and down to the bay—a prospect which should have filled Yarden with excitement.

But she lay on her bed in the dark, listening to the clear, happy voices, watching the circle of sky growing dim through the porthole, feeling cut off from what was happening around her. Adrift on a troubled sea.

Over and over she asked herself the same questions—the same questions she'd been driving herself crazy with for days: Should I try to contact Treet? What if I don't like what I find? What if he's dead or in trouble? What then? Oh, God, what am I supposed to do?

She rose, went up on deck, and watched the activity on shore. There was an urgency about it—the coming of night made the Fieri move a little quicker in their preparations. They were aware of the fading day and did not wish to lose the light.

I've got to decide, Yarden said to herself. I've got to decide right now. If I wait any longer, I too will lose what little light I have.

She turned and walked back along the deck to the stem, as far from the bustle on shore as she could get. She sat down cross-legged on the polished wood and drew a long deep breath. God, help me, she thought. I don't know what to do.

“The Dhogs have blasted
the ductwork, Supreme Director.” The Invisible commander held himself stiffly and stared straight ahead. “It will take time to reach the Old Section through the refuse pits.”

“You
will
reach the Old Section,” intoned Jamrog menacingly. “I want those responsible brought before me at once. Do you understand me?” The bhuj flashed back and forth in the Supreme Director's hands as he sat in the thronelike chair he had had placed in the center of the Supreme Director's kraam. His face was puffy and blistered, his scalp mottled gray and patchy where clumps of hair had been burned off. His flesh was red and painfully swollen from the scorching he'd taken on the night of the failed assassination.

“The duct is destroyed, Supreme Director,” explained Osmas, realizing he was dangerously near the flashpoint of his superior's vile temper. Jamrog had been raving mad since the Trabantonna attack; it didn't do to argue with him or gainsay his whims, however unreasonable they might be. “I don't see what anyone can do.”

The Saecaraz Subdirector motioned toward the door, and the Invisible backed gratefully toward it. Jamrog had killed three of them in the last two days, and Osmas wanted to save the man if he could. What with the demise of the Mors Ultima bodyguard, upper echelon Invisibles were getting scarce. “We'll find another way in,” Osmas said hopefully.

“How?” roared Jamrog. “Searching is impossible, and guides are less than useless!”

It was true. For some unknown reason, guides had never been able to locate the hidden entrances and exits of the Old Section. There were many theories to explain this, but it remained a mystery why the blind wayfinders could not discover the Dhog's secret pathways—even with the help of their psi entities.