Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (44 page)

If the ambush went according to plan, however, it would be a massacre. The Invisibles would be surrounded in the open to be picked off at will by the hidden rebels. The site was well chosen from that perspective; Tvrdy had shown his genius once again. Treet found himself feeling a little sorry for the hapless Invisibles.

The radio monitor lay at his feet; he had brought it with him so he could hear any communication between Kopetch and Tvrdy. He surveyed the battlefield. It was roughly rectangular, the burned-out shells of buildings forming the sides of the rectangle, which was open at the back end where the Invisibles would enter. At the far end, two big mounds of rock and debris formed the fourth side; the faces of these mounds were covered with straggling bushes and wispy thin trees. It was behind these and in the rubble at the foot of the mounds that Cejka and Tvrdy waited with their men. Treet could not see any trace of them, which was good. They were well hidden.

Treet yawned and rose to stretch himself; he did a few torso twists, windmills, and overhead arm pulls to loosen the kinks. He was in his fifth deep knee bend when there came a muffled rumble in the distance. He stopped to listen, and a few seconds later the monitor at his feet whispered with Kopetch's voice: “The duct is open.”

Treet imagined Invisibles boiling up out of a still-smoking hole in the ground, blasters between their teeth. He waited, holding his breath, listening for the far-off sound of battle. But he was too far away. He slumped back down into his turret to wait, balancing the monitor on his knees, but the box remained silent. Most likely, Kopetch and the others were too busy to report. At any rate, it wouldn't take long. Even now the Dhogs were probably attacking the first of the Invisibles.

God help them, he thought—and then wondered if praying for an enemy's death was kosher. He amended his prayer to, God help us all.

The ambush began sooner that expected. Treet was sitting in his foxhole wondering how long it would take for the Dhogs to reach them when he heard the sound of thermal weapons echoing from across the Isedon.

He raised his head to look down upon the battlefield and saw Dhogs already running into the rectangle. They scattered as they came in, spreading out and heading for the nearest cover. At first Treet thought their actions very convincing. Too convincing. Something about the way they were running—headlong, flat-out, without looking back—let him know that something was wrong.

The first wave of Dhogs had entered the Isedon, a squad of Invisibles hot on their heels. Where were the rest? There should have been more Dhogs—at least twice as many.

Then he saw the reason for the Dhogs' severely decreased number. Clattering slowly onto the battlefield came a large, heavily armored em, spitting lightning from at least four ports as Invisibles crouched and dodged around it, laying down a blanket of deadly fire.

A tank! The infernal Invisibles have a tank!

Treet's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. We're going to lose, he thought. There's no way we can fight a tank. They've already cut down half of Bogney's squad—they'll wipe out the rest of us just as quick.

Why was there no warning? Could it be that Kopetch and Piipo had been killed before they could send the alarm?

As Treet looked on, horror-stricken, the improvised tank moved into position in the center of the battlefield and began unleashing its terrible firepower. Bolt after bolt of blue lightning streaked from its ports, screaming through the air to shatter the mountains of debris. Cejka's men are down there, he thought desperately; they're getting murdered!

The Dhogs began fighting back tentatively. But each time someone managed to get off a good shot, the tank retaliated and took the sniper out.

Where was Tvrdy? How could he stand by and watch the slaughter? Why didn't he do something?

If only I had a weapon, Treet thought. I'd ... I don't know what I'd do, but I wouldn't sit here and wait for them to blast me to smoldering jelly. Somebody's got to do something!

His palms were wet; he glanced at his hands to see blood weltering up where his fingernails had dug into the soft flesh. Help us! Please, God! Help us now if You're ever going to!

Under the scream of the thermal weapons, Treet heard a low droning noise. Glancing at the far end of the battlefield, he saw another tank lumber into view, and behind it another and yet another. Four tanks! And each with a contingent of Invisibles hovering around it.

We're lost! he thought. They have us outmanned and outgunned. We've had it!

As the last tank came in, the others rolled forward, spreading out across the field, each taking a quadrant to scour.

In a few minutes it would be all over. There was nothing left to do now but roll over and die.

Why didn't Tvrdy act?

What could he, Treet, do? The Tanais Director was pinned down with enemy fire bursting over his head. If Treet showed himself now, it would be swift and certain death. But someone had better do something, and quickly. The Invisibles would have the whole battlefield secured in a matter of minutes. The only resistance came from the few Dhogs still foolish enough to risk popping off at one of the tanks.

But soon enough even that activity ceased. The Invisibles kept firing for a few seconds and then, seeing no further resistance, stopped. A stifling silence claimed the battlefield. The air stank of ozone and hot metal.

Treet peered from his perch. Could it be over? So soon?

The Invisibles began moving out across the field toward the mounds of debris where the Dhogs had hidden. They searched the still-smoking rubble, pulling bodies out. The corpses were lined up out in the open where, lest there be any doubt, they were scorched once more for good measure.

The stupid, sadistic scum! Treet's clenched fists pounded his thighs. Where was Tvrdy?

Yarden
sat cross-legged on the sand, hands resting on knees, palms upward in the classic meditation pose. She had disciplined herself to sit this way for hours at a time, without making the slightest movement, without breaking concentration. She had spent most of the flight to Empyrion in her cabin aboard the
Zephyros
in just this way: sitting immobile while her mind practiced the exercises of the sympathetic art, keeping the pathways open, the process sharp.

Now, here on a different world beneath a different sun, she sat facing the dark green water as the foaming surf flung itself upon the shore before her. She had been sitting this way through the night, and now dawn broke the gloom in the east, stripping night from the horizon and peeling it back to reveal a new day.

Yarden had spent the night thinking, praying, searching for answers inside herself. There was so much to think about, to sort out, to find answers for. The familiar posture of meditation comforted her, made her feel as if she was in control once more—although, as she well knew, her life was out of control, careening for a crash.

So she sat out on the beach under the alien stars, examining the pattern of her life in the hope of finding the clues to unravel the mystery of what had gone wrong.

Before coming on this journey, she was happy, her life in Fierra full; she'd had definite plans and the sense of a future bright with promise. Somewhere along the way, however, that changed. She couldn't pinpoint the exact place or time, but she felt the effects acutely. Things had just generally fallen apart—apparently without any particular turning-point or major catastrophe. One day she was happily sketching away, developing her burgeoning artistic skills; the next day she was stumbling through ashes.

She lost sight of the bright future; her happiness leaked away like a rare gas through the sides of a porous container. As the weeks of the journey went by, Yarden felt her grip on her life slipping, and it had slipped so far that she now no longer knew which way to turn, where to go, what to do.

That was bad enough. But worse, she could not shake the feeling that her life had become inextricably bound up with the person of Orion Treet.

It was a mystery to her how a human being could, in his absence, dominate life more completely than he ever had with his presence. Even the talking fish seemed to be talking about him—or, to be a little more accurate, talking about the same things he was talking about, which was disturbing enough in itself.

Everywhere she turned: Treet. And again: Treet.

Did she love him?

It was more than that, of course. Her anxiety and confusion were not merely the result of an inability to make up her mind whether she loved the lout or not. The roots of her dilemma went deeper. Far deeper.

As she sat there, hour upon hour, the sound of the wind-driven rollers droning in her ears, she patiently sifted the tangled thoughts and feelings that had brought her to this brink. And she began to feel as if Pizzle's remark last evening might have hit closer to the mark than she at first suspected.

She had sought out Pizzle to tell him about her experience with the fishes earlier in the day—about the warning. She found him walking along the strand at sunset, arm in arm with Starla. They walked together for a while—awkward in each other's company, Yarden feeling her intrusion with every step—until Starla excused herself and returned to camp.

After Pizzle got over being miffed at Yarden for butting in, they had a good talk. They walked along the beach, and as the lowering sun touched the water and turned it to quicksilver, Pizzle told her about his experience with the talking fish. “It was kinda weird,” he said. “At first I didn't get anything from them—just a sort of lift, you know? Just being in the water with them is a blast. They're beautiful animals—a lot like those pilot whales back on Earth. Anyway, after a while I started to get something; I could tell the fish was trying to tell me something.”

“Anything in particular?” asked Yarden.

Pizzle lifted his shoulders slightly. “Beats me. All I got was a warm feeling and ... how should I say this?—a feeling of real peace and contentment. They seem to be happy creatures all right, no doubt about that.”

Yarden told him what she discovered about how to talk to the fish and then, out of the blue, Pizzle asked her what was bugging her.

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

“You never want to talk to me unless something's bugging you. We're not the closest of buddies, you know. Besides, you've been chewing your lip like it's beef jerky. I figure something must be worrying you.”

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” she'd told him. “Honestly, I don't. I can't seem to get in sync—everything's off kilter somehow. I don't know what it is ...

“I feel drawn and chased at the same time,” she concluded.

“Then stop running,” he'd said.

Stop running.

How? She wasn't even aware that she
was
running.

“The Seeker won't rest until all men know Him,” Pizzle had said. “That's what Anthon tells me.”

Now, as she sat watching night loosen its hold on the land, those words came back: the Seeker won't rest...

Fine, but didn't I
welcome
the chance to learn about You? she demanded of the Infinite. Didn't I do my best to learn, to understand? What else is there? What do You want from me? What more could You possibly want?

Stop running.

Am I running? What am I running from?

Surrender.

What an old-fashioned word: surrender. Giving up, giving in, giving yourself to another. Relinquishing control.

Yarden bristled at the notion. Ah, there was the rub. I feel drawn and chased at the same time, she thought. Drawn by a presence she did not want to give in to—so she ran. And she was pursued.

Now that same probing presence drew near once more. The Infinite ... the Seeker. She could run, push the presence aside, and run. Or she could simply sit there, wait—whatever would happen, let it happen.

Something inside her did not want to let it happen. There was a knotty lump of defiance within her, born of equal parts fear and self-will. She'd gotten where she was in life by feeding this defiance. Would I have survived without it? Would I have gotten anywhere by giving in?

Look where it's got you, Yarden. Look at you. You're falling apart. You're sitting out on a damp, drafty beach all night mumbling to yourself. You don't know what you want or where to go. You're lost. You've lost control, because this is something that can't be controlled by you.

Your sympathic abilities are the most important thing in your life, yet they have never brought you a moment's happiness. Ever wonder why? Why? Weren't they just another way to control things around you?

Control, Yarden. That's what this is about. What do you fear most? Losing control. But tell me, who is in control now?

Tell me, who is
in control?

Yarden heard herself asking the question. It was her voice, the voice of her conscience, and yet it wasn't.

I am in control! she answered, and instantly felt shame wash over her in waves.

You see? Your heart knows better. Yarden, surrender.

Again, the old-fashioned word.
Surrender.

What will I get if I surrender to You? she demanded.

Something you don't have now: peace.

Peace. Yes, that would be worth having. To shed the weight of her imperfectly borne burdens and walk away, rest, find sanctuary. But could she trust the Seeker, this Infinite so intent on winning her? Could she trust the Seeker not to crush her, not to leech away her personality and make her a drab, unthinking zombie?

Yarden, the voice chided, wake up and look around. What do you see? Are My people unthinking zombies? Are they crushed by their devotion to Me?

I am the Infinite, Yarden. I have taken infinite pains to make you who you are. Why would I now destroy what I have made? To prove a point that doesn't need proving?

You run because you fear losing yourself, losing control. Yet I tell you that you are already lost, and that the control you thought you had was just an illusion. You are just now discovering this because you have hidden the truth so well for so long. But you see the truth now, and it scares you.