Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (50 page)

Treet jogged heavily on, urging those ahead of him to hurry. Ernina, bent double by the weight of the medical instruments and supplies she carried, labored alongside the line of wounded. The few that could walk tottered along weakly; the rest were slung in blanket-contrived hammocks carried by Dhogs. Treet came up beside her. “Are you going to make it? Or should I send someone back to help out?”

In the wildly flickering light her eyes glinted with determination as she glanced up at him. “I'll make it—might take all night, but I'll make it.”

“If you get to lagging behind, sing out. I'll get you some relief.”

Treet hitched up his own heavy packs and trundled off. Evacuation was no picnic, and the place they were headed for was no garden spot. He only hoped it would not turn out to be needlessly symbolic: making their last stand in the Dhog cemetery. At least it had two strong points to recommend it. One, it was difficult to get to if one didn't know precisely where one was going. And two, it was close to a secret exit which led to Bolbe Hage.

Still, being run out of their base was a stroke of bad luck, to put it mildly. They had counted on being able to stay there, rest, and get reorganized in their own good time. Now it appeared as if they would have to do it on the fly, if at all.

Up to the moment when the enemy began bombarding the training field, Treet had believed that a miracle would happen and that they would, by some genius masterstroke, deal Jamrog the
coup de grace;
or, if not, that they would be rescued. The chances of either thing happening grew more remote by the minute as Treet sensed time running out. If there was going to be any saving, it would have to come soon—while there was still something to save.

The evacuation was divided up into three stages or groups. Group One, under Tvrdy's direction, was in charge of weaponry and supplies necessary for survival; they had gone ahead to lead the way. Group Two was the wounded and injured, helped along by the Dhogs Bogney had provided and anyone else Treet had been able to commandeer for the task. Group Three was the Tanais and Rumon soldiery defending the rear to ensure a successful evacuation.

They reached the gloomy cremation site without incident. Piling their burdens on the ground around the massive burning mound, now studded with flagging torches instead of flaming corpses, exhausted people dropped where they stopped and sank into sweat-drenched slumber.

Treet and Ernina worked to make the casualties as comfortable as possible under the conditions, while Tvrdy moved like a ghost through the silent encampment, taking a mental inventory of what they had been able to save. Cejka, Kopetch, and Fertig, having arranged for a nominal watch between them, settled down to rest. Bogney disappeared somewhere into the Dhogs' labyrinthine fastness with a few of his assistants.

When he had done all he could for the wounded, Treet found himself a flat spot to stretch out and sank down gratefully among the stacks of gear. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the ground.

Diltz
examined the huge carapace with exacting care. Three Saecaraz magicians hung back uncertainly, exchanging nervous glances and fidgeting in their black-and-silver striped yoses. At a nearby workbench several Nilokerus magicians pored over an old plastic-bound text, murmuring as they vocalized the words written there.

His inspection completed, Diltz straightened and put his hands on the metallic skin. He closed his eyes and spread his thin lips in a sick smile. “I feel its power,” he whispered. “Listen!” He pressed his ear to the smooth surface. “It speaks! 'Death to Fieri!' it says—'I am death to Empyrion's enemies.'”

He cocked his head to peer at the magicians. “You have done well. The Supreme Director will reward you personally.” His lips twisted in a paroxysm of joy. “How soon may I inform our leader of the demise of his enemies?”

The foremost magician stepped cautiously up. “The text, Director—” He indicated the Nilokerus scanning the ancient document.

“The text, yes. What of it?”

“The text is, shall we say, vague on several points. It is ... ah, our feeling is that ... perhaps—”

“Speak, man! What are you trying to say? Is the weapon serviceable?”

“Oh, yes. We believe it is. The power beneath its metal shell is not, as far as we can determine, diminished by time.”

“Then what is it?”

The magician hesitated and looked to his comrades for support. “We do not yet know how to ... the word—what's the word, Geblen?”

One of the red-hooded Nilokerus raised his head. “Eh,
launch,
I believe is the word you require.”

“Launch. It only remains to discover how to launch the weapon.”

Diltz peered at the magician skeptically. “What is this launch?”

“The, ah—” He made a pushing motion in the air with his hands. “The sending forth of the weapon.”

“The sending forth? How is it sent forth?”

“Why, through the air, Director. Or so we believe.”

Diltz looked at the man as if he'd lost his mind. “Thrown through the air? By what means?”

“Engines, Director.” He pointed to the rear of the weapon, the flaring exhaust ports of three huge rocket engines.

Diltz waved a hand impatiently. “Well, how long until you learn to operate these engines?”

The Saecaraz shook his head sadly. “As you see, we are reading the texts even now. Several passages look promising.”

“Get more Readers. I want this weapon operational as soon as possible—two days! I'll wait two days and no more.”

The magician inclined his head and went back to the others. Diltz took a last look around the Archives, and at the odd-looking death machine with its stubby, knife-thin protrusions along its narrow flanks, its snub nose and bulging engines, gray skin gleaming under a row of grid lights. He rubbed the long body with his hand and then departed, rejoining his Mors Ultima bodyguard at the door.

Most of the Fieri
had gone down to the sea to meet the talking fish once more. But a few, the Mentors among them and designated leaders such as Gerdes and Preben, had stayed behind to sit in council with the Preceptor.

After her talk with Anthon, and her session with Pizzle, Yarden had returned to her tent where she lay awake most of the night composing in her mind the argument she would use in helping persuade the Fieri to abandon their age-old policy of nonaggression and nonintervention and go help Treet.

They assembled in the clear morning air out beside the Preceptor's tent. The bright, white sun was warm on the sand as Yarden joined the group, taking her place in the large circle beside Gerdes and across from Anthon. Pizzle was nowhere to be seen; neither, for that matter, was Crocker.

The beauty of the day would work against her, she thought as she knelt down, digging her bare toes into the sand, feeling the cool, moist layer just below the warm, dry stuff on top. The sound of laughter and splashing water drifted across the beach. The blue backs and fins of the talking fish flashed in the jade-green water as the Fieri sported with the playful creatures. How does one take seriously a description of hell when surrounded by heaven?

Preben worked his way around the circle, distributing what appeared to be clothing tags to each person in attendance. He stopped before Yarden and handed her one of the tags. She saw that it was a flat, triangular card with a crystal affixed to the front. A thread-thin wire hung from the back of the card, and on the end of the thread was a small plug.

“You can hear with this,” he explained. “It's tuned to the Preceptor's crystal.”

Gerdes helped Yarden fasten the tag to her chinti and showed her how to place the plug in her ear. Anthon caught her eye across the circle. He smiled and lifted his hand in a gesture which imparted confidence. Yarden returned his smile and settled in to wait, using meditation calming techniques.

When she opened her eyes again, the Preceptor was taking her place. A large green-flecked crystal was placed on a stand in the center of the circle. Yarden put the earplug in her ear. There came a pleasant chiming sound and Mathiax's voice said, “Good morning, Preceptor. The Mentors are convened as you requested. We await your pleasure.”

The Preceptor acknowledged those in the circle. “The importance of our discussion this morning is not to be underestimated because of the informality imposed by circumstance,” she began, speaking slowly, solemnly.

“We understand,” answered Mathiax; his voice was so distinct, so present he seemed to be standing in the center of the circle. “Your instructions have been reviewed, and we agree that a timely examination of this matter dictates such necessity.”

“Then we may proceed.”

“Very well, Preceptor. Mentor Talus has prepared an opening statement. As Clerk of the College of Mentors, I recognize his seniority.”

“We will hear Mentor Talus' statement.”

“My friends,” began Talus, his voice a small aural earthquake. “I will be brief.

“It is now over eleven centuries since our fathers in their wisdom terminated all relations with Dome, leaving them to their evil. I don't need to remind you that the great riches and blessed life the Fieri have enjoyed in the intervening years are but a foretaste of the Infinite's intent for His people.

“However, less than half a solar cycle ago, Travelers were found alive in the Blighted Lands. Certain of the Mentors and myself have come to look upon the arrival of the Travelers as a signal that the time of our isolation from Dome is ending.

“We believe that the Infinite is speaking to us through the presence of the Travelers and that we must listen very carefully to learn what direction we must choose.”

Talus hesitated, and it seemed to Yarden that he had been about to say something else and instead said, “Please, my friends, I urge you to open your hearts and minds to the voice of the Teacher.”

There was a little silence and then the Preceptor said, “Thank you, Talus. Your words are well chosen. Since we are reminded that time is critical, I think we will be well served to hear from one of the Travelers now.”

Yarden glanced around to discover every eye on her and realized the Preceptor meant her. Anthon nodded encouragingly. She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Preceptor,” she said, and swallowed hard.

“I am Yarden.” Her voice quavered slightly. “Although I have lived among you only a short time, I have been enriched and blessed. I have learned of the Infinite Father's love for His people, and for me.

“I have also learned something of your past, and the reason why you have chosen to allow Dome to go its own way. Rightly, you remember the grief of that terrible day—the day you call the Burning.

“Yes, you remember the grief; it is with you still. But you do not remember the horror. That too should be remembered. Let me remember for you now.”

Yarden closed her eyes and began to speak in a hushed voice. No one moved or made a sound.

“The morning sun shone down on green fields around the sparkling cities on the plain. Children played, lovers awakened in one another's arms, students returned to their lessons, workers to their jobs, and the Fieri began a new day of living.

“As the sun climbed higher into the sky, you paused to eat your midday meal. Some of you took food outdoors to enjoy the beauty of your world from the shade of fine old trees. The breeze ruffled your hair and bathed your limbs. You napped and dreamed, or laughed with your families and friends around the table.

“The sunlight dimmed momentarily as a shadow passed in front of the sun. It was nothing; a cloud perhaps. But a moment later you heard the roar of engines and the whistling scream of the missiles as they fell. You looked up.

“The blue flash—brighter than ten thousand suns, yet only one hundred meters in diameter—blinded you instantly as the bomb exploded eight hundred meters above the ground. In that split second when the flash was still traveling earthward, the hypocenter reached a temperature of over three million degrees—many times hotter than the surface of your sun.

“On the ground below, stone buildings melted into pools of glowing lava, metal bridges burst into flame, as did the rivers under them, and ceramic roof tiles boiled. Your people, still looking skyward, the first intimations of terror just beginning to register in the cells of their brains, simply vaporized, the fluids of their bodies turning directly into steam and gas—leaving their shadows etched on walls and pavement.

“Due to ionization, the churning air filled with the pungent, electric smell of ozone as the blue, sunlit sky flashed to yellow and green and then red-brown as the massive fireball spread, roaring skyward on a lethal plume twenty kilometers high. The vile mushroom cloud rose so high that its intense heat condensed water vapor, and a viscid black rain began to fall—sticky wet lumps of hot radioactive mud sluiced from the skies to pelt down on the survivors.

“In the first tenth of a second, every living thing in a radius within nine kilometers of ground zero was incinerated, and every building, tree, and shrub, anything standing above the ground level, was blasted into oblivion.

“A little further out from the epicenter, the damage was more shocking. At a radius of thirty kilometers, people were charcoalized. Mothers fleeing with their babies in their arms, men running to protect their families, everyone standing in the open air when the heat flash swept by was turned into a charcoal statue.

“Winds of one thousand kilometers per hour followed the heatflash. The terrible winds lifted lighter objects right off the ground or sucked them out through doors and windows of buildings. People were picked up and hurled through the air with incredible force; they became missiles traveling at ferocious speeds to smash into walls and solid objects. Skulls, vertebrae, and long bones were pulverized on impact.

“Those safe from the winds did not escape the tremendous overpressures that accompanied them. These overpressures produced instantaneous rupture of the lungs and eardrums. Windows were extruded from their frames by the overpressure and then burst into millions of needlelike shards which sliced through the air, penetrating human flesh and producing hideous lacerations.