Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (49 page)

Giloon Bogney stared at
Treet with murder in his eyes. The bhuj in his hand flicked back and forth, the discolored blade glinting dully in the dirty light. “Giloon could kill you, Fieri man,” he growled.

“What would that solve? You'd never get out of here then.” For the last two hours Treet had been explaining all the reasons he could think of why he couldn't lead a Dhog exodus out across Daraq, the Blighted Lands. Now he was tired and wanted to sleep.

“Huh!” Bogney grunted, rubbing the bhuj against his hairy cheek. Then he pushed the weapon into Treet's face. “Maybe Giloon be killing you now, seh?”

Treet pushed it away angrily. “Look, I don't want to play games with you. I want to go to sleep. So, unless you have any further—”

“You taking Dhogs to Fieri,” Bogney insisted.

“I've told you twenty different ways: n-o—no! It's impossible. We'd never make it. I can't. I won't. Kill me if it will make you feel better, but we are
not
going to Fierra. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Get used to the idea. We are not going!”

Bogney stared at him with his good eye, his zigzag scar puckering angrily. “Dhogs don't needs you, Fieri man. We be going lonely anyhow.”

Treet sighed and rolled his eyes. “We've been through this, Bogney. You have no idea what a desert is, what it's like out there. In fact, you don't even have the slightest idea of what it's like to breathe fresh air! Let me tell you, words can't describe how painful it is. That's what it's like. Real air would wipe you out in a second.”

Bogney listened patiently. When Treet was done, he remarked in exactly the same stubborn tone as before: “Dhogs be going lonely anyhow.”

“Okay! Fine! Go! Bon voyage! Vamoose!” Treet crossed his arms over his chest and flopped down on his bed. “You're the boss, Bogney. Happy motoring. Don't forget to write. Good-bye and good luck and good riddance!”

Bogney stared at Treet for a moment longer, turned, and walked slowly out, his much-stained cloak—the one Tvrdy had given him—sweeping the floor behind him, leaving only a residual reek in the air.

What a day! thought Treet. Tvrdy's giving up, Bogney wants to leave, and everyone else is just comatose from exhaustion. If that isn't enough, the Invisibles are systematically tearing the Old Section apart brick by crumbling brick. What can happen next?

Treet knew he should not have asked that question. He didn't really want an answer. But he got one anyway—in the form of a ripping blast that raked the compound outside, spattering rocks and dirt clods against the trembling walls of the building.

Treet rocketed straight up off the bed and reached the door without touching the floor. He was outside a split-second later as people came spilling out onto the field.

“Get back! Get back, you fools!”

Treet spun around to see Tvrdy racing toward him in a crouch. He saw the flash and saw Tvrdy throw himself to the ground, but before he could do likewise, the shock wave hit him and flattened him. Brick fragments and bits of debris pelted into him, followed by a rain of hot gravel.

Wriggling on his stomach, Treet inched over to Tvrdy. “I thought they weren't supposed to be this far in,” shouted Treet, his voice lost amidst the roar still echoing in his ears.

“Those were long-range seekers.” Tvrdy jerked his head up, looked around. “The Invisibles will follow them in, but we still have a little time to get out.”

“I know a place—the Dhog cemetery. Bogney took me there. It's safe—hey!—where're you going?”

Tvrdy was already on his feet, dashing away, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Save the supplies and weapons! Everyone carry something! Supplies and weapons! Leave the rest!”

Two more blasts shook the compound, but they landed wide of the arsenal and supply buildings. Despite the rising panic, the evacuation got under way speedily and efficiently. Treet gathered himself and ran for the ramshackle hospital.

“What's happening?” Ernina asked as he came in, her square face floating in the light from a hand-held lantern. The moans of the injured filled the darkness.

“Invisibles—they've found us. We still have some time. We're getting out.”

“I can't leave the wounded.” She made to turn away.

Treet caught her arm and held on. “We'll take them with us. Get all your equipment together. I'll find Bogney.”

He hurried out again into the confusion. Flares burned outside the supply buildings, casting the scene into garish relief. Treet made for the far end of the compound and struck off for the Dhog leader's lair. He met Bogney and several of his underlings flying toward him along the narrow street with torches in their hands.

Treet halted. “Bogney!”

The Dhogs ignored Treet, pushing past him without a word. “Bogney! I have to talk to you.” He began running after them.

“Giloon be finished talking.” The Dhog leader called back over his shoulder.

“Listen to me!”

The Dhogs ran on without looking back.

“I'll lead you to Fierra!” screamed Treet. “Do you hear me? Fierra! You win. I'll take you.”

Bogney stopped and turned around. Treet ran to him, and the Dhog shoved a torch into Treet's face and glared at him. “Fieri man be lying big to Giloon?”

Treet shook his head, his breath coming in gasps. “No ... I mean it. I'll take you, but you have to help me first—help me get the wounded out of the hospital. I'll need all the men you can get; we have to carry them to safety.”

“Then you take us?”

“I don't know how, but I'll take you.” Another blast lit up the night. A tottering ruin several blocks over tumbled, spilling its rubble into the street behind them. “We've got to hurry. Make up your mind.”

“Lie to Dhogs, Giloon killing you dead.”

“If I'm lying, you can kill me all you want later. Only come on, we've got to move now!”

Bogney whirled and sent two of his companions racing off in the opposite direction. Then he and the two remaining Dhogs followed Treet back to the compound.

“It
will take too long to assemble all the Mentors,” protested Yarden. “We must do something now.”

The Preceptor smiled, but said firmly, “We will have the time we require. The Protector will look after your friend. The Mentors must be assembled, for wisdom is multiplied when many wise come together.” She rose, signaling an end to the interview.

Yarden glanced around the ring of faces and saw that pressing the matter further would gain nothing; she had done all she could for one night. She rose and said, “Thank you, Preceptor, for hearing me out. If I have spoken more frankly than I might have, it is because I believe time is short.”

The Preceptor went to Yarden and put her arms around her. “Think no negative thought, Yarden. Trust in the Infinite Father to care for His own. He will provide a Deliverer.”

“I will try, Preceptor. It's hard, but I will try.”

The Preceptor released Yarden and stood for a moment holding her at arm's length. “I detect in you the kindled flame of belief. I sensed it earlier when you entered this evening, and it is stronger now.”

Yarden bowed her head. “It's true,” she admitted shyly, then raised her head, face beaming. “And it feels wonderful!”

“Feed the flame, Yarden.” The Preceptor squeezed her hands. “Feed it with all that is in you.”

With that, Yarden said good-night and followed the others out. Anthon was waiting for her a few paces up the beach. The campfires were mostly out, and the songs had died away. The Fieri were turning in for the night. “Walk with me a little, would you?”

“Of course,” replied Yarden and they fell into step with one another. She breathed in the night air and glanced at the hard, bright stars burning in the deep heavens. Empyrion didn't have a moon, but she didn't miss it—except at rare times, like now.

When they had walked a little way, Anthon said, “It went well tonight. You were very persuasive.”

“Hmmm, I am convinced that trouble is coming,” replied Yarden, uncertain what Anthon was trying to say.

“I don't doubt it at all. The Preceptor is right, however, in convening the Mentors before suggesting any action—if action is to be taken, since this will likely affect all Fieri.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Anthon gave a slight shrug and made a dismissive gesture with his hands. “I have been in contact with Mathiax and Talus,” he said simply.

“You have? How?”

“The Mentors' crystal.”

Of course, thought Yarden, I should have remembered. Each Mentor has one. “What did they say?”

Anthon stopped walking and stood for a moment facing the great, restless shadow that was the sea. “Jaire—Talus' daughter, you remember—”

“I remember.”

“Jaire had a dream—very much like the warning you received from the fish. In fact, in describing the warning for the Preceptor tonight, you used almost precisely the same words Jaire used in describing it to Mathiax. Disturbingly precise.”

“So you think there may be something to the warning.”

Anthon gave her a sharp look and resumed the pace. “I said I did not doubt it, and indeed I do not. But the matter is more complicated than that. There are those among us who have become persuaded that perhaps the time has come to try reestablishing contact with Dome. You have to understand that to change the course we have followed happily for many centuries is no easy thing.” He looked at Yarden curiously. “In your world, change is more quickly accomplished, yes? I gather it's considered something of a virtue in itself.”

“Often it is.” Yarden looked skyward and sighed. “But you make it sound as if it will take centuries to do something to help Treet—and to save ourselves. If the warning is genuine, and we all agree that it is, time is running out for all of us.”

“This is why I wanted to speak to you now. You can help us change, Yarden. Perhaps it is the very reason you were sent to us in the first place. We need your spark, your dynamic energy. We need you to show us the way.”

Show them the way? I'm just barely crawling yet myself, she thought. I can't show anybody the way.

Anthon continued. “It's true. That's part of the reason Mathiax and Talus allowed Orion Treet to return to Dome.”

“You mean they
used
him.”

“No, not at all. They sensed the Infinite was working in him and argued for his return, hoping he would somehow show us how we were to proceed in this matter of approaching Dome.”

“We're talking about life and death here. Treet was right: Dome is out to destroy us. Surely you understand self-defense.”

“We understand that self-defense is a most subtle trap. Was there ever a time when aggression was not called self-defense?” Anthon shook his head sadly. “Those who worry overmuch about defending themselves build walls instead of bridges.”

“Granted,” said Yarden. “But you said you hoped Treet would show you how to proceed. Has he?”

“We believe he has. And we believe you are helping, too.”

“Anthon, forgive me, it's late and I'm not thinking clearly. Just what is it you want from me?”

“Only your understanding. For us, it is not so important whether Dome destroys us—believe me. We would welcome our own destruction sooner than lift a hand against our destroyer if in destroying him we become like him.”

“But a few of us—Mathiax, Talus, Eino, and myself, along with a few others—have come to believe that by leaving Dome to itself, we may actually be guilty of encouraging evil.”

“You're serious?”

“Very serious. You see, evil left to itself breeds only evil. By separating ourselves, we have ensured that evil would grow.”

Yarden nodded slowly, finally grasping what Anthon was trying to say to her. “I understand. How will they ever find the light if there is no one to show them?”

“Yes, that's it. By withholding the light we possess, we have condemned Dome to darkness.”

“But that's not your fault. They chose it for themselves.”

“Did they? Take away the light, and there can only be darkness. We were the light among them and we left, taking the light with us. Only a madman blames the darkness for being dark when he has withdrawn the light.”

Yarden thought about this a long time and Anthon watched her closely. They stopped walking and faced each other. “Tomorrow,” said Anthon, “we will confer with the Mentors. You will have an opportunity to speak, and I wanted you to know that you are not alone.”

“Thank you, Anthon.” Yarden took his hand and held it. “I think I know what to say now.”

A few minutes later, Yarden approached Pizzle's tent. Starla and Pizzle were sitting in front of the tent, arms wrapped around each other. As Yarden came up, she heard Pizzle saying, “... so after Gandalf tangled with the Balrog, and the orcs got Boromir, the Fellowship just fell apart, scattered.”

“What of the Ring-bearer?” asked Starla, eyes wide with wonder.

“Oh, Frodo and Sam escaped and went on by themselves. Gollum followed them and when ...” Pizzle glanced up. “Oh, hi, Yarden, what's up?”

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” she began, glancing at Starla.

Starla rose quickly. “Please excuse me, I will leave you two to talk.”

“Hey, wait a minute! You don't have to—” Pizzle protested.

Starla smiled and put a hand to his face. “It is getting late, and I must go anyway. Yarden wishes to speak privately with you. We will be together again tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” said Yarden. “That's a very nice young woman,” she said, watching Starla walk away.

“Yeah,” admitted Pizzle. “So why'd you run her off?”

“I have to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

“Pizzle, how much do you know about atomic bombs?”

The last Dhogs carried
the last wounded man from the compound ten minutes before the first Invisibles arrived. The rebels were struggling through pinched alleyways and dark corridors not two hundred meters from New America Square, each one laden with as much as he could possibly carry, when the explosions streaked the darkness behind them.

“It looks like they found Tvrdy's surprise,” Treet muttered.

“That might slow them down,” said Cejka, who was leading a platoon to cover their retreat. He turned to watch the torchlight procession wind through the desolate streets. “You go on, and keep them moving up ahead. I'll stay here and watch for a little while.”