Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (45 page)

Control is very important to you. But can you now see that striving after it has given you more pain than pleasure all your life? Your desire for control has thwarted you most often when you were closest to giving in to better things.

This is why you could not love Orion Treet. He had the audacity to suggest that you love him as he was. But you demanded that love should be on your terms or not at all. You gave him an ultimatum that he rejected; so you rejected him. He was a threat to you because you could not control him.

Was?
Is he no longer a threat? she wondered.

We are talking about
you,
Yarden, not Treet. It is you I want now, at this moment. The choice is yours.

What choice do I have? Her inner voice was shrill, near breaking.

You can always remain as you are.

How can I? Yarden fired back. You have given me a taste of what it's like and now demand I choose. I'm not ready. I need more time.

Listen to yourself, Yarden.
A taste of what it's like ...
First you say you fear I'll crush you, then you admit you've had a taste and want more. Yes, you tasted and found it good. Why do you hesitate? Do you think you will learn more by waiting, that the decision will become more clear? I tell you no. No. You have been given everything you need to decide. You have even been given the taste you asked for.

That I asked for? When did I ever ask for it?

Think for a moment. Who was it that pleaded to become an artist?

Artist? What's my becoming an artist have to do with this?

You yearn for truth, and burn to create beauty. Then why do you resist the source of all truth and beauty, the One who has given you your heart's desire?

There was no answer to that.

Come to Me, Yarden. Give Me the gift of yourself, and I will give you a gift far greater than you can imagine. Yarden, trust Me and believe.

All eternity vibrated in that moment. Yarden imagined that time had stopped and would remain stopped until she answered. The stars, the sea, the wind, the blood coursing through her veins—everything would wait, frozen in that instant, while she decided.

Yes, I'll trust You, she thought.
Yes!

She expected something then. A sign of divine approval, a rush of emotion—a response of some kind. But there was only the sound of waves on sand, the breeze blowing gently, the first rays of sunlight tinting the horizon, and the sound of her own heart beating in her ears.

It is done, she thought. It's over. The running is over.

There was relief in the thought. Yarden slumped, allowing her muscles to move now; she brought her hands to her neck and rubbed gently. She rose, coming out of her trance position like a flower unfolding itself slowly.

For a moment she stood looking out across the dawn-lit water, molten green in the faint morning light—seeing it for the first time, although she'd stared at it all through the night without noticing it at all—then yawned and stretched, feeling tired and a little lumber-headed from lack of sleep. But there was something else, too—a warm place deep down inside, small but spreading outward; she was at peace within herself.

Smiling to herself, she turned and started back along the water's edge toward the Fieri camp. She had not gone more than a few steps when she saw, far off on the strand, approaching her from the direction of the line of cliffs opposite, a figure—no, two: a man and the dark, fluid shape of a wevicat walking beside him. The ghostly figures emerged out of night's quickly fading gloom.

Strange. Who would be awake at this time of the morning for a stroll? There were no wevicats in camp. Who could it be?

Yarden continued walking, and the figures drew nearer. The man appeared naked, except for a loin pouch, and carried a long staff. The cat loped easily along, stopping now and then to pounce on a wave or roll in the surf, playing in the water.

Closer now, there was something familiar about the figure. Something she recognized, but could not place. Her pulse beat faster. What? Who was it? She quickened her pace.

Closer.

No! Oh, no! It can't be.

She froze in midstride, her hands flying to her face. No! Dear God, no!

But it was.

Crocker!

The
Invisibles, satisfied that the Dhogs had been exterminated, now began disengaging. The tanks backed away slowly as the men on foot fell in behind, weapons at the ready, wary.

They're getting away! Black rage bubbled up like scalding pitch inside Treet as he watched the enemy retreating without so much as a single singed uniform.

Futile tears stung his eyes. It was over. The Invisibles had won. Now they would scour the Old Section, searching out all the hiding places, executing the survivors by twos, by tens, by hundreds. And nothing, nothing would stop them.

Even as these hopeless thoughts filled his mind, Treet felt the inner presence stir. Once again he felt the uncanny assurance, the strange peace that had no objective source. The despair thickening around him dissipated. The fear and frustration melted away.

He looked out on the battlefield through hanging streamers of smoke. The first of the tanks had reached the narrow entrance to the field and was turning to move into the Old Section. But as the death-dealing machine swung around, it appeared to raise slowly off the ground on a puff of gray smoke.

The levitating tank then proceeded to fly to pieces as the explosion ripped its undercarriage to slivers, scattering jagged chunks of metal in a lethal rain. The roar reached Treet a split second later as Invisibles, blown backward by the blast, tumbled loose-jointed through the fire-drenched air. Others nearby were cut to ribbons by flying shrapnel.

The two middle tanks halted at once, but the tank at the rear of the procession ground ahead, faltered, and tried to reverse. Too late. The second explosion took off its front half in a shearing sheet of red flame which billowed out of its ports. The Invisibles crouched behind the tank dropped dead to the ground, felled by the heat wave of the explosion.

Before the two center tanks could back away from the scene, however, rebels appeared from out of nowhere. A shout went up across the battlefield, and Tvrdy's squad swooped down upon the two stalled vehicles. The Invisibles, pinched between the burning wrecks of two tanks, scattered to the mound of debris behind them, where they were mowed down before they knew what had happened.

Cejka was simply not there one moment, and very much there the next—along with a squad brandishing flame-sprouting weapons.

The Invisibles wilted before the onslaughts. The tanks made feeble efforts to turn the battle once again, but the attackers were too close and the clumsy vehicles were easily outmaneuvered.

The battle was over in a moment. Treet stared at the carnage, feeling numb and empty. The ferocity of the fight, the concentrated violence had deadened his senses, even as the booming shock of the explosions had stunned his eardrums.

It is over. I should feel relieved, happy, he told himself. We won.

But there was no joy in the victory. It had cost too much. Treet climbed from his bunker and began picking his way down to the battlefield to join Tvrdy and the others. He was halfway across the field when he saw men flying into the rectangle from the direction of the duct. Kopetch, Piipo, and their men reached the place where Tvrdy, Cejka, Fertig, and Bogney, who had somehow managed to come through the battle unscathed, waited amidst the wreckage. As Treet came up, he heard Kopetch saying breathlessly, “... too many ... couldn't hold them ...”

“The duct?” asked Tvrdy. He gave Treet a frown of reproach, but didn't say anything. His mind was on other matters.

“Still open,” replied Piipo. “Couldn't seal it. We tried ...”

Tvrdy cursed and began shouting orders. But before anyone could move, they heard again the menacing grumble of a heavy machine approaching from the direction of the duct.

“We can't stay here,” said Tvrdy. “Too risky. We'll have to make them chase us and try to take them on the run.” He shouted an order and they all started off, but not before the Dhogs finished separating a few of the dead Invisibles from their weapons.

Yarden stared in disbelief
at the man who had once been Crocker.

The former pilot leaned on his spear, gazing at Yarden with an odd expression, innocent and wary at the same time. The great black wevicat sat on its haunches, licking sand from a huge paw, regarding the woman with keen disinterest.

Her hands fluttered as she reached out toward him. “Crocker?”

The man did not acknowledge the name, but merely gazed back with a vacant, animal look in his eyes.

She took a step toward him. The cat's head snapped up; its lips curled back. She hesitated. “Crocker,” she said, trying to control her voice, “it's me, Yarden. Remember me? Yarden ... your friend.”

He raised his hand and began scratching his stomach.

Tears misted Yarden's eyes. “Oh, Crocker ... what's happened to you? What ...?” Just then the implications of what she was seeing detonated in Yarden's cerebral cortex, sending shock waves through her central nervous system. Her knees went spongy, and the horizon tilted wildly.

“Oh, no ... Crocker—tell me what happened. Where's Treet? Where's Calin? Crocker? What happened? Can you talk?” Ignoring the cat's low growl, she stepped up to the man and put her hand to his face. Tears streaming from her eyes, she said, “Crocker, can you hear me? Can you speak? Oh, please, say something.”

The man stared dumbly at her. She bowed her head, and the tears fell into the wet sand.

They stood that way for some time before Yarden drew a sleeve across her eyes, sniffed, and said, “Come on, I'm taking you back to camp. I'm going to get you some help.” She put her hand on his arm. He did not resist and allowed her to lead him away. The cat watched them depart and then moved off along the strand.

Jaire
awoke from a disturbed sleep. She glanced around her room as if she might find the source of her disquiet in its shadowed corners. She rose and went to the curtain, then drew it aside to stand gazing out over the dark water of Prindahl.

The dream was still fresh: black, malformed shapes boiling in the seething darkness; in the center, standing in a shaft of white light, pinioned there, stood Orion Treet, his hands upraised in an attitude of prayer or supplication ... or defeat. And then, with a terrible ripping sound, the light went out and Treet was swallowed by the roiling darkness.

That was all. But the image carried with it an emotional charge, a feeling that persisted even though the dream had ended: futility, hovering doom, despair.

Jaire shivered in the predawn light and, drawing a robe around her shoulders, hurried off to find her father.

Talus, pulled from his bed by his daughter's quiet touch and the intense, worried expression on her face, listened as she related her disturbing dream. They sat in the jungled courtyard of the great house Liamoge, drinking herbal tea as pearly daylight slowly claimed the sky.

When he had heard the dream, Talus said, “I see why you awakened me, Jaire. It is a most distressing sign.” His voice rumbled in the empty courtyard like small thunder.

“You think it is a sign?”

His eyebrows went up. “Oh, yes. The Protector is trying to warn us. The dream is a warning.”

“I agree,” said Jaire, then looked puzzled. “But what am I to do about it?”

“That is for us to discover.”

“If Orion is in trouble, we must help him.”

She spoke with such conviction, her father looked at her closely. “You have a feeling for the Traveler.”

Jaire smiled briefly. “I always have.”

Talus nodded absently. “Well, we must consult Mathiax first thing. As acting Preceptor, he may have some suggestions. He will want to be informed in any case.”

Jaire rose. “I am ready.”

Talus smiled as he climbed to his feet. “We can wait until the sun is risen, I think.” He hugged his daughter and planted a kiss on the crown of her head. “Don't worry. We will have the time we need.”

Mentor Mathiax nodded gravely
as Jaire told her dream. When she had finished, he said simply, “I knew something like this would happen.”

“The dream?” asked Jaire.

He glanced up, held her eyes with his for a moment, smiled faintly. “The dream? Yes, I suppose—although I wasn't certain what form the warning would take.”

Talus spoke up. “Then you consider it a warning, too?”

“Definitely,” he agreed. “A warning. What else?”

“We have to do something,” said Jaire. “We have to help him.”

“Oh, yes, I agree,” said Mathiax. “What to do—that is the question. Helping him may not be easy.”

“Was returning to Dome easy for him?” snapped Jaire.

“No, no, child,” soothed Mathiax. “I only meant that given our vow of peace, we may be limited in the kind of help we can offer.”

“You are Preceptor. You could send help. Authorize—”

“Acting Preceptor, if you please.” He smiled as he shook his head. “I do not have such authority. Even the Preceptor herself does not have that power. The question will have to go before the College of Mentors.”

Jaire jumped from her chair. “That will take too long! We must act at once!”

“We will certainly do what we can.” Mathiax looked thoughtful. “Leave the matter with me.” He rose and took Jaire's hand in both of his. “I know you care for the Traveler. Can you believe that I care as much?”

Since
Osmas' most timely demise, Diltz had proceeded with his plans unhindered. Jamrog began to think he'd found the perfect subordinate in the sly Nilokerus Director—smarter than the dull, officious Hladik, stronger than the weak-willed Osmas, more pliable than the inflexible Mrukk. Each had had their uses, to be sure, but the power-hungry Diltz was a tool made for Jamrog's hand.

The attribute that made him most attractive to the Supreme Director was that Diltz seemed to anticipate his moods and thoughts. Removing Osmas, for example, at the precise moment the worm had outlived his usefulness—and without the slightest hint having been dropped—what more could a leader want?