Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome (57 page)

The sympathic touch weakened. He felt Yarden receding from him and reached out for her, strained after her, but could not hold her. Before the touch faded completely, even as it slipped away, he received a clear and distinct infusion of hope. His spirit leaped up inside him.

Help is coming, she seemed to say. Lay low and hold on.

On
Skywalk level of Hage Saecaraz, the Supreme Director strolled the shaded garden walkways of his pleasure grounds. Nilokerus Director Diltz walked beside him, enjoying the greenery and the sunlight shining through the huge crystal panes directly overhead, basking in the praise of his superior.

“You are to be congratulated,” Jamrog was saying.

“Not at all, Supreme Director,” replied Diltz. “I remind you that it was your idea. I merely oversaw its implementation.”

“As you wish.” Jamrog nodded solemnly. “I accept the triumph. I am, after all, the generative force of my people. I am the blood and spirit of Empyrion. I am life and beyond life.” He turned to regard Diltz, his eyes glassy from flash. “Do you understand what I am telling you, Director?”

“Of course, Supreme Director, I—”

“From now on, I will be addressed as Father.”

“Of course, Father.” Diltz gave him a sidelong glance. “The magicians await your order. Will you give it now?”

Jamrog's eyes closed, his lips curled lazily. “My breath gives life or takes it. My word is law and death.” He stopped and raised his hands to the sun, which was shining through the enormous panels of the dome above. “I am light; I am becoming one with the sun. My mind is racing far ahead. My enemies seek to trap me, but I know their plans before they are conceived. I am filled with thoughts incomprehensible to lesser beings.

“Behold me—I am advancing through spiritual realms. My incarnations fall from me and are borne away by the oversouls of my predecessors. Trabant Animus speaks to me. I will be purified in the blood of my enemies.”

He stopped and lowered his hands. A fierce, wicked light shone in his eyes. “The Fieri will be destroyed. Their hateful memory will be erased forever. I give the order.”

A shadow passed over them just then, and they heard a mighty booming sound that throbbed in their ears. They glanced up in time to see the curving bulk of a balon glide by overhead.

“Behold!” shouted Jamrog above the noise. “The Seraphic Spheres! Do you see, Diltz? They have come to transport me to the Astral Planes. It is a sign: I am to be made immortal!”

“The fleet is in
position,” said Bohm, turning from the flight board.

“Then let 'er rip!” shouted Pizzle from his place at the projection table, and the airship's engines, normally audible as a distant, burring hum, suddenly filled the cabin with a virtual avalanche of penetrating, bone-vibrating sound.

The others, clustered around the projection table, watched Dome's revolving image, their teeth clamped tight to keep them from rattling in their jaws. Talus, barely able to make himself heard over the droning thunder, shouted, “How long?”

Pizzle shrugged and shook his head, mouthing the words, “Don't know. Wait and see.”

The
people of Dome heard the resounding boom of the Fieri airships and looked to the heavens. Far above, beyond the gigantic vault of crystal, they saw great spherical shapes gliding over the translucent roof-shell, and they stopped to stare in wonder.

Mrukk strode into the Supreme Director's pleasure garden. He found a flash-jagged Jamrog and an extremely apprehensive Diltz standing in the center of the grounds. Jamrog had his arms outspread, face upturned in the sunlight, a beatific expression on his face.

Diltz saw him and came to him. “What is it?” he demanded, glancing toward the sky as another balon passed overhead. “What's happening?”

Mrukk glared with disgust at the emaciated puppet. “Afraid, Diltz?”

Diltz drew himself up. “I am concerned for the welfare of the Supreme Director,” he huffed. “As you are responsible for the Supreme Director's safety, I demand to know what is happening.”

“Nothing to concern you.” He moved to Jamrog, who seemed oblivious of his presence. “Supreme Director—”

“He is to be addressed as Father from now on,” Diltz informed him.

Mrukk's eyes narrowed, and his lips curled in a silent snarl. “Supreme Director,” he repeated, “I bring word that the attack on the rebel stronghold is effectually complete.”

“Your disrespect has not gone unnoticed, Mrukk.” Jamrog opened his eyes slowly and gazed at the Mors Ultima commander. “I have been made immortal. You will honor my physical manifestation with all respect.”

Mrukk crossed his hands over his chest and inclined his head in a short bow. “Father, the rebels are subdued.”

“That is nothing to me.” Jamrog said airily.

“But—”

“Silence! You are in the presence of deity.” Jamrog scowled, and then raised his hands to his head. He closed his eyes once more and intoned, “My mind sees events before they happen. All secrets are revealed to me.” His eyes flew open, and he stared at Mrukk accusingly. “You imply that this disturbance means something to me. Your very presence mocks my power.”

Mrukk stiffened and stared.

Jamrog continued imperiously, “This is the day of my awakening. The innermost secrets of men are laid bare before me. My words are alive, and I speak of realities beyond reality. I am radiant. Feel the power streaming from me. This is the day of my triumph.” He turned to regard Diltz fondly. “Director Diltz honors this sacred day by delivering my enemies into my hands.”

“The rebels are your enemies.”

“The Fieri are my enemies!” screamed Jamrog. “I have given the order to destroy them.”

Mrukk whirled on Diltz. “What have you done?”

Diltz fell back a step. “The weapon is ready. It has been activated—”

“You fools!”

“You have failed, Mrukk.” Jamrog stepped toward him. “Your failure must be atoned. Atone to me, Mrukk. By your death you will be purified.” He turned to Diltz and motioned him away. “Call my bodyguard.”

There was a flash in the sun, the knife appeared in Mrukk's hand as if from nowhere. “Stay where you are!” hissed Mrukk. “We will see whose orders are to be obeyed.”

“Nothing's
happening,” shouted Pizzle. “Can we increase the power any more? And maybe make the circle a little tighter?”

Bohm nodded and spoke into the transceiver, then made an adjustment on the flightboard. The din of the engines, already deafening, doubled in volume. “Maximum threshold!” Bohm called back.

Through the port, Pizzle watched the airship descend toward the hills and valleys of a rumpled, crystal landscape until they flew only a few meters above the undulating contours of Dome. Pizzle gazed onto the scene, watching the shining surface slide by beneath them, staring as if entranced. All at once he whirled away from the port.

“I've got it!” he cried, racing back to the flight board. “I've got it! It's phase!”

“What?” shouted Bohm. The others looked up from the projection table to see the two of them yelling noiselessly at one another; the boom of the unmuffled engines drowned their words.

“Phase!” screamed Pizzle. “The engines are out of phase!” He made wavy motions in the air with his hands—one hand high when the other was low. “We've got to bring them into phase—make the sound waves reinforce each other!” The wave motion came together as his hands moved in unison.

Bohm frowned and rubbed his hand over his grizzled head, squinting in concentration. He stared at the flight instruments and began adjusting the controls, listening to the timbre of the engines. After a moment, he looked up. “We'll try it,” he said. He flipped a switch and began shouting instructions to the other balon pilots.

Pizzle yelled, “This is it!”

The
sound penetrated Dome, thrumming through the twisted mazework of its corridors; rolling through Empyrion's elaborate labyrinths of avenues, streets, and tunnels; echoing down the terraced hillsides, and into the walled valleys; pealing through the Hages like endless thunder from the hard crystal sky.

Diltz cast a frightened glance skyward as the great sphere of a balon passed by the transparent roof. The sound seeped into his skull and vibrated up through Empyrion's superstructure and into the soles of his feet. “What is happening?” He started to back away.

“Shut up!” snarled Mrukk. “Stay where you are.”

Diltz froze.

The Supreme Director spread his hands magnanimously and moved toward Mrukk. “Your unbelief has blinded you, Mrukk. Turn the knife on yourself, and gain enlightenment.”

As Jamrog spoke, the skydome shuddered. The immense panel above them—but one tiny scale among millions in a reptile's skin—gave forth a tremendous crack, and he looked up to see fissures streaking through the crystal.

“What's the matter, Immortal Father?” Mrukk asked sweetly. “It is just the Fieri. Even your enemies have come to pay homage to you on your most auspicious day.”

“I have no enemies,” Jamrog said grandly. “The fire of my being has extinguished them.”

The cracking sound grew louder—as if an entire forest of trees were being snapped off at midtrunk, as if the rock cores of mountains were splintering.

“They've come to destroy us!” shouted Diltz.

Jamrog advanced, arms outstretched. “I am immortal, and all I touch is transformed. All is laid waste before me. Death is my ultimate transformation.”

“Immortal? Let's see how immortal are you!”

Mrukk held his knife level while Jamrog stepped into it, the blade piercing the Supreme Director's body just below the heart. Jamrog's eyes went wide; an astonished expression appeared on his face. Mrukk threw an arm around the Supreme Director's waist, twisted the knife, and slid it up toward the sternum. Jamrog gasped and looked down in horror at the crimson rivulet streaming from his body. He clasped the knife blade as Mrukk rammed it home.

Jamrog staggered, making little mewing sounds deep in his throat as the sky panel overhead splintered and groaned.

With a terrible rending crash, the crystal ceiling high above them shattered.

The battle raged on
in the Old Section. The rebels, fighting with a ferocity born of desperation, had pushed the Invisibles out of the tunnel and across the ditch and then dug in, stubbornly refusing to retreat.

The Invisibles regrouped and brought in their makeshift tanks to finish the fight. As the armored vehicles advanced, Tvrdy rallied his men to face the final assault, shouting for them to stand their ground.

The tanks bumped slowly forward over the rough terrain. Invisibles spread out behind, grinding closer and closer.

“Hold fire!” Tvrdy cried. “Make them come get us.”

When they reached kill range, the tanks opened fire, laying down a blistering barrage. The air writhed with the streaking fire of their weapons.

Back in the tunnel Treet heard the awful screech of the guns—growing louder as they drew nearer. His heart sank. Whatever help Yarden could bring now would come too late. “God, help us!” he whispered to himself. “This is it!”

The guns stopped.

The silence brought Treet to his feet, and he was running toward the tunnel entrance before he knew why. He pounded along, wondering what he would find when he reached the opening. Surrender in progress? The sizzled corpses of his comrades?

Presently he saw the tunnel entrance looming ahead. After the numbing shriek of weapons, the silence roared. He reached the mouth of the tunnel and slowed, stepping hesitantly from the tunnel into a scene of suspended animation. The rebels were all standing frozen, weapons lowered and eyes skyward. Across the battlefield Invisibles stood in the same posture: still as statues, weapons at their sides, and faces raised, gazing up through the hanging smoke to the filth-dark canopy of Dome far above.

Tvrdy stood nearby. “Wha—” began Treet. Tvrdy waved him silent with a chop of his hand.

It was then that the sound Treet had been hearing for some moments registered—the sound that had stopped the battle in its final, furious throes: an awful snapping sound, awesome in its enormity—as if the very foundations of Empyrion were shifting and giving way at once.

With this sound came the howl of rushing wind. Then the sky-shell of Dome began to seesaw.

Huge rifts appeared in the enormous panels, widened, spread like stop-action lightning.

“It's coming down!” cried Treet even as the man-made heavens buckled and chunks of crystal began to fall.

Tvrdy was the first to react to Treet's warning. “Into the tunnel! Run!”

The men stood transfixed, mouths open, watching in disbelief as the only sky they had ever known collapsed upon them.

“Run!” screamed Tvrdy. Cejka and Kopetch snapped to life and began hurling men toward the tunnel entrance. “Into the tunnel! Save yourselves!” they yelled.

Treet grabbed the arm of a Hyrgo soldier and pulled him into the tunnel, returned for another, and was then pushed back by a sudden crush of bodies streaming into the narrow opening as everyone charged in at once.

They all surged forward. The floor of the tunnel shook beneath their feet as one horrendous crash after another—whole cities of glass toppling, sliding, and smashing—echoed through the conduit.

And above the tremendous din, Treet heard the raw whistle of wind rushing toward him. A second later, a blast of cool fresh air struck him, tore at his clothing, and raced on. Without considering the consequences, Treet gulped a deep breath.

A split second later he remembered only too well, remembered with every atom of his being the incendiary torture of breathing Empyrion air for the first time.

It sliced at his windpipe and spread like liquid fire into his lungs, as though his esophagus had been scoured with an industrial corrosive and the wound cauterized with a blowtorch. He reeled blindly forward.

Men around him halted in their headlong flight, gasped, clawed at their throats, and fell screaming to the tunnel floor. In seconds everyone was convulsing in agony.

Everyone except Treet. He leaned against the tunnel wall, head down, forcing himself to breathe normally, remembering a time when he, too, rolled in anguish while his lungs ignited: