Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (48 page)

She cleared the image from her mind and concentrated again, sending her awareness out like searching fingers.

Then she found him. Her touch vibrated with his presence; she knew it, recognized it as Treet's, but it was distant, external—as if he were covered by a thick, impenetrable shell or membrane.

He was alive, yes, or there would be no trace of him at all. Yet, something was blocking her attempt to reach him directly. Like a lead sheet shielding a body from X rays, something stood between her and Treet, something that either absorbed or deflected her probing consciousness.

Yarden forced the probe deeper, trying to pierce the membrane, all her being concentrated at the rapier-sharp tip, thrusting like a surgical needle. She felt the membrane part, slipped in through the narrow rent, and was overwhelmed by a sudden sensation of doom, of death and despair roiling fiercely, ugly and menacing. And Treet was there—somehow caught in it, enveloped by it.

And then she felt a presence, quick and incredibly strong, moving toward her through her contact with Treet. It reached out for her as if to pull her in, to envelop her, drag her down. Hate radiated from this maleficent presence like the rays of a dark star. Or a black hole which sucked all living matter into its gaping maw, vomiting lethal radiation in return.

Yarden recoiled from the contact, but tried to hold on to Treet. She felt him receding, slipping away. Then the membrane closed and she was expelled. On the outside again, she could sense Treet, but received no impressions from him. He was alive. Beyond that?

The effort at maintaining the touch was exhausting her; she felt her energy draining away.

Yarden came to herself with a shudder. She raised shaking hands to her face. Never in her sympathic experience had such a thing ever happened. And yet, as horrible as it was, it seemed familiar.

She had encountered a force of incredible strength—the merest contact had left her shaken and spent. But there was more to it than strength. There was a will, mindless and insensible, but grasping, tenacious, holding fast to all that came beneath its sway as if with countless writhing tentacles—so strong, so possessive that it could shield a human mind from her seeking touch.

It was a long time before Yarden could move again. When she finally struggled to her feet, she felt unspeakably old, weary, tired in her soul. But she remembered where she'd encountered the dark presence before: Dome ... the Astral Service ... Trabant Animus.

“Just what am I
supposed to tell them?” asked Treet, exasperation making his voice brittle. “Why won't you talk to me?”

Tvrdy glowered and waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the question. “Tell them you can't do it, of course. Tell them it's impossible. Tell them we need them here. Tell them anything you like.” Tvrdy turned away.

“I've told them all that. They think I am a
Fieri
—remember? They believe I can lead them to the promised land, and they want to go
right now.
Haven't you wondered why it's been so quiet around here since the ambush? They think they're leaving. I've put them off as long as I can. We've got to talk to Bogney—explain to him exactly what's going on here—” Treet paused, looking at the Tanais' rigid back.

“What's wrong, Tvrdy?” he said more softly. “You've changed. What's eating you?”

Tvrdy turned on him, eyes flashing. “You ask what's wrong? You really want to know? I'll tell you:
we can't win.”

Treet had never heard defeat from Tvrdy's lips. He stared, unable to speak.

“Do you hear?” Tvrdy's voice jumped several registers. “We can't win against Jamrog. He is too strong.”

“We lose one skirmish and you're ready to toss in the towel?” Tvrdy's puzzled glance let Treet know he'd used another obscure figure of speech. “You're giving up after one battle?”

“I will never give in to Jamrog. But I know now that we cannot take him.” Tvrdy paused, looked away again. “Maybe the Dhogs are right. Maybe we should leave the Old Section ... go to Fierra.”

“I can't believe it's you saying these things, Tvrdy. Look at me! Look me in the eye and tell me we're lost.”

Tvrdy kept his face averted, said nothing.

“See? You can't do it. You don't believe it yourself. Besides, if we left now, it would only be a matter of time before Jamrog hunted us down. You know that.”

“We could go to the Fieri—”

“I
tried
that, remember? Besides, there's the little matter of about ten thousand kilometers of nothing but nothing between here and there. Even if we were all up to a nice long stroll, where would we get the supplies? How would we carry them?”

Tvrdy's head dropped.

“Look, we'll find a way to beat him,” said Treet. “Our hit and run raids aren't going so bad. We just have to hold on until something turns our way.” He took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. This was hard work, keeping all the ends from unraveling. “In the meantime, we have to figure out what to tell the Dhogs. They're waiting.”

“Tell them the truth.” The resignation in the Tanais leader's voice cut at Treet like a razor.

“Okay.” Treet nodded. “I'll take care of it.”

He went out and walked across the empty training field, trying to frame the words in his mind. The truth, yes—but what was the truth exactly? That he was not a Fieri?

That was easy enough. But if not a Fieri, what was he?

I'm a traveler. I'm from another world, another time. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past ...

The truth?

You think Cynetics is a god. It isn't. It's a bloated, bloodsucking corporation. (What's a corporation? Look it up in the dictionary.)

You think the Fieri are your saviors. They aren't. In fact, for all their angelic goodness and righteousness, they wouldn't give a rat's hind end to save this stinking hellhole. And I don't blame them one bit.

See, they're human beings, too. And they have long memories. They tried for peace with you bubbleheads once upon a time and paid the ultimate price for the attempt. As it happens, they aren't particularly anxious to repeat the experience. They'll leave us to die our miserable deaths without lifting a finger.

Running away across the desert won't help, either. There's a madman on the throne of this little cesspit, and he won't be happy till he's incinerated the entire planet. So even if we could run, which we can't, there's really nowhere to run to. See?

This is reality, folks. Get used to it. We're in the brown soup up to our rosy red cheeks, and it's getting hotter by the minute.

“I
tried to contact Treet and Calin,” Yarden said at last, her voice sounding strained. “Sympathically.”

Ianni scanned her friend's features minutely. Yarden had sustained a severe shock, there was no question about that; her eyes were dull and her expression slack, drained. “You don't have to tell us—” she began, leaning toward Yarden with her hand extended. But Gerdes, with a quick shake of her head, silenced her, and Ianni withdrew the hand.

In a moment Yarden continued. “I couldn't find Calin ... I think she's dead. There was one horrible moment when I thought Treet was dead, too. But I forced the touch, and I reached him ...” She raised her eyes and focused on the two women for the first time.

“I'm listening, Yarden.” Ianni spoke softly, her tone full of compassion and reassurance.

“Go on, daughter,” Gerdes said.

“There was ... something—I didn't know what—like a shell. It covered him, would not let me touch him. I sensed Treet's presence, but could not touch him. When I persisted, the thing turned on me, forced me out. I—” Yarden's jaw worked silently as she lost the words for a moment.

She searched Ianni's eyes for understanding, and reached out a hand to take her friend's arm. “Ianni, I have never felt such hate in my life. It was ugly. Hideous! I got the feeling that if it could have killed me through my contact with Treet it would have—instantly, without hesitation ... and then I remembered ...”

Ianni grasped Yarden's hand. She could sense the great struggle taking place within, a war in which Yarden fought valiantly to remain stable and rational. But there was desperation growing in her eyes; the fight was taking a toll on her strength. Soon she would buckle under the strain. She looked to Gerdes for help.

“What did you remember, Yarden?” Gerdes asked, pressing Yarden to continue. “Say the words. Release their power over you.”

A spasm of fear squirmed over Yarden's face. “Trabant ...” She whispered the name. “... it wanted to kill me.”

“But it didn't kill you,” said Gerdes. “It couldn't harm you at all. You're safe now.” Gerdes spoke soothingly, but her words had the opposite effect.

“No!” shouted Yarden shrilly. “You don't understand. I'm not worried about myself. It's Treet! He's in trouble and I can't ... I don't know what to do.”

Ianni thought for a moment. “The Preceptor will help us,” she said, looking to Gerdes for affirmation. Gerdes nodded her approval. “We will go to her at once.”

The three were silent as they walked to the Preceptor's tent, which looked like a large, multisectioned orange, white, and blue blossom—inverted and dropped onto the sand. Ianni and Yarden waited outside while Gerdes sought audience for them within.

They were admitted and entered. Globes of pale yellow sunstone rested in sconces in the sand, bathing the interior in soft illumination. Mentors Anthon and Eino were seated on cushions on either side of the Preceptor; Preben was in attendance as well. Anthon jumped up as soon as he saw Yarden. “Come in, please. Sit down,” he said, offering his place next to the Preceptor.

The Preceptor gazed at Yarden, concern and compassion mingled in her eyes. She lifted a regal hand and helped Yarden down to the cushion beside her. Yarden felt healing power in the touch as her heart calmed, and a measure of peace returned.

“Don't be afraid, Yarden,” said the Preceptor. There was strength in the simple words, strength Yarden could lean on. She settled down gratefully beside the Preceptor and looked at the faces ringed around her. She could feel the kindness and sympathy flowing out to her, and relaxed a little.

At a glance from the Preceptor, Anthon leaned forward and said, “We have been discussing the appearance of your friend Crocker. We would like to hear your thoughts.”

“Yes,” offered Mentor Eino, a dark-bearded man with an easy smile and large hairy hands. “We are concerned, as you must be, and seek guidance in this matter. You could help us a great deal by speaking candidly.”

“I'll try,” said Yarden softly. Music floated into the tent from outside, along with the sound of Fieri voices, a happy evensong rippling on the evening breeze. The sound was at once comforting and remote, as if taking place in a separate and distant sphere of existence, while what was happening in this tent at this moment was all that was real.

“I am afraid,” Yarden began, “afraid for my friends—I fear that something terrible has happened.” She paused, and Ianni, sitting directly opposite, urged her with her eyes. “I tried to contact Orion Treet sympathically—that is, with my extrasensory abilities. After some effort I found him, but was not able to establish contact—something prevented me, opposed me.”

She explained about her attempt to reach Treet and her encounter with the evil spirit of Trabant Animus, and how just the briefest touch had left her drained and frightened. “Treet is alive,” she declared, “but he is in trouble. We've got to do something to help him.”

The Preceptor nodded slightly, accepting Yarden's story. “Is there anything else you would like to tell us?”

“Why, yes,” said Yarden, “There is something else. The talking fish—”

“The fish?” Anthon darted a glance to Eino and leaned forward. “Tell us!”

“It may have been my imagination, but I believe they were trying to warn me of danger.” She then told them of the strange ‘conversation’ she'd had with Spinner and Glee.

Her listeners were silent, their faces grave when she finished. Preben, who had followed the story carefully, spoke up. “This is precisely the matter that brought me here tonight. I have been hearing similar stories these last two days.”

Mentor Eino nodded thoughtfully. “I, too, received such a warning from the talking fish, although I could not interpret it half so well.” He nodded in deference to Yarden's ability.

“Exactly what I was thinking!” Anthon interjected. “A remarkable telling.”

It had not occurred to Yarden that her sympathic ability might have given her a special facility for understanding the talking fish. Although she had recognized at the time that the creature's ‘speech’ was quite similar to the sympath's touch, she did not imagine that she would prove to be a first-class interpreter.

The Preceptor, who peered over interlaced fingers at Yarden, asked, “What do you believe to be the nature of this warning?”

Yarden paused to gather her thoughts. She wanted to be as precise as possible—Treet's life might depend on her answer. Closing her eyes to aid memory, Yarden thought back—was it only a day ago?—to her time with the fishes. She could feel the remarkable presence of the wise and gentle creatures, and once more experienced their pure and uninhibited expression.

The affect string came back to her with terrible clarity, magnified by her own still fresh experience with Trabant. She felt again the swarming, pestilential darkness; the mindless hate and unreasoning malice; the all-consuming malevolence of the hideous, twisted thing; the stifling threat of creeping doom.

Yarden shivered and began to speak. “There is darkness … a seething, potent darkness, and hate—such unbelievable and total hate; it wants to destroy us, to poison us with its evil, exterminate us.” She opened her eyes slowly to find the others watching her, frowning deeply, thoughtfully. “I believe the fish were warning us about Dome,” she concluded.

The word seemed to freeze them all for a moment. All except Yarden.

She looked triumphantly from face to face, thinking, There! I've said it. It
cannot
hurt me. Its only power is fear, and I have conquered that here tonight. I am free of its malignant influence, and I refuse to give in to it again. I am free!