Infinite Day (52 page)

Lezaroth, wearing the best uniform he had, stared through the one-way window into the hold, where the Farholmers sat on the floor. He counted them.
Thirty. All there; I haven't lost one.

He was suddenly struck by a thought
. In an hour, all of these will be dead, or will wish for death more than they have ever wished for anything. Yet I have no feelings about their destiny; I am utterly emotionless on the subject.
He peered at them again, probing his thoughts.
Is this what the Assembly would call
damned
? To be utterly beyond compassion? beyond humanity?

Lezaroth realized, with a numbness that felt almost as if he had been anesthetized, that he wasn't even shocked by his lack of emotion.
Only two things concern me now: to serve the lord-emperor and, if possible, to stay alive.
He turned away from the window and again reviewed his strategy.

I shall seek an audience with the lord-emperor after the offering is made to the powers. He ought to be in a good mood. I will put forward D'Avanos as a threat to the great onslaught that is about to happen. I will ask to return to Farholme and catch the man before joining with the main fleet.

Lezaroth was aware of Lieutenant Kalpustlaz standing by him. He turned to the man.

“Lieutenant, your orders are plain. Get your men and, as soon as we dock, take that lot straight up to the Vault of the Final Emblem and lead them in. Make sure the doors are closed behind them. Then take up guard positions on the rim above the platform. Unless, of course, he who is the most high over men gives other commands. I will be in the control center watching . . . what unfolds.”

The man gave a salute. “And later, sir? What orders?”

Lezaroth saw that this was another thing he was unconcerned about.
You may be dead. The Vault of the Final Emblem is a perilous place. I do not choose to seek an audience with the lord-emperor there. I shall watch from a safe distance
.

“Lieutenant, when it is all over, return to the ship. Are my orders clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then implement them the moment we are docked.”

After the man left, Lezaroth looked through the glass again. His gaze fell on Isabella, sitting some way apart from the others.

Should I have spoken to her in the last few days?
The answer came back swiftly.
Why? Why continue with such a charade when I know her fate?

“Good-bye, Isabella,” he whispered to himself. “Our relationship was promising. Enjoy your audition with the lord-emperor. I fear it will turn out very different from what you expect.”

Lezaroth stood there for a few more moments until the ship's computer announced that docking was thirty seconds away. He braced himself; there was a gentle bump and the ship swayed slightly, and then all was still. Without delay, he strode down to the docking door. As he waited for it to open, he heard behind him the brusque orders of his men dragooning the Farholmers into line.

As soon as the door opened, Lezaroth left the ship and walked swiftly along the broad and high corridor. As he passed under the first arch, hewn in dark, monumental stone, he remembered a previous visit and, his feet ringing on the steps, took a stairway to the higher level. As he walked along the empty, echoing, and shadowed corridor, he was almost overwhelmed by how much he hated and feared the Blade of Night.

The lord-emperor has created a Dominion that revolves around two axes: the occult and the military. The heart of the military is the great barracks and fortress at Khalamaja; the heart of the occult is here. And it is here that I feel least at home and most at risk.

Then, feeling concerned that such thoughts might be sensed, he strode on.

Merral stood by the docking door, hefting his gun in his hand and waiting for Laura to open it.
Come on! Time is passing!

Suddenly Laura's voice whispered inside his helmet. “Merral, there's a man waiting outside the door.”

“Is he armed?”

“No obvious weapon. He looks like some sort of customs or landing officer. He's holding a databoard.”

“Laura, get ready to open.”

Merral turned around. “Helena, I need a single quick shot, as soon as the door opens. The rest of you get back. Dim the lighting.”

Let there be no cameras watching!

There was a flurry of movement, and Helena squatted behind him, so close that the barrel briefly touched his leg.

“Laura, now!”

The door slid open with a hiss to reveal a gloomy space where a man stood with a bored face. Surprise abruptly replaced the boredom.

He heard a snapping sound, felt a breath of air pass his leg, and saw the face disfigured by a red blotch. The man toppled over with a crash.

“Quickly!” Merral snapped. “Get the body out of the way.”

How immune to death we have become.

As he stepped onto the Blade of Night, Merral felt a strange, unpleasant, but somehow indefinable sensation. A change in artificial gravity? A release of static? Or a foreboding of death?

As someone slid the body into a darkened recess, Merral gazed around, trying to take in his surroundings. He realized that the simulation hadn't prepared him for the sheer scale of the features; the corridor was vastly larger than on any space vessel he knew. Merral sensed he was no longer dealing with spacecraft engineering; this was architecture, and on a massive scale. He looked down the darkened corridor to see before him ornate arches, recessed alcoves, and complex ornaments. The effect was monumental and brutally intimidating.

I feel crushed.
“Lord, have mercy,” he whispered.

Still taking in his surroundings—how strained and gloomy the light was—Merral began moving forward. He set as fast a pace as he could without running.
We mustn't attract attention.

As he passed the first set of columns, he saw that they were made of what seemed to be polished dark stone run through with livid veins of yellow, which made them look as if they had been made of the skin of some weird reptile. The air was stale with a tinge of something moldy. The architecture of the corridor reminded him of a mausoleum.

This is the most lifeless place I have ever been in. To merely walk through this place and leave alive would be worth celebrating.

Beyond the quiet, echoing sound of footsteps, Merral could hear something that bordered on the very edge of hearing, a noise that was like a murmuring or sighing.

There are powers that hate us here. Farholme was our world, a world belonging to the King of all, and there we barely defeated them. Here, we are intruding in their territory
. The thought was terrifying and seemed to break over him like a wave.
How can we hope to avoid destruction? No wonder the envoy warned me—it's me they want
.

For a second, Merral paused, almost terrorstruck. Yet as he did, a phrase from the Word came into his mind.
“I am with you even until the end of age.”

Has the age ended?
he asked himself.
No. Has the promise been withdrawn? No
.

His nerves steadied, Merral moved on. Within twenty meters, he came across a substantial archway, and beyond that, the nature of the corridor changed to a better lit and less ornate form. He recognized that this was the passageway above the loading area, and as they moved onto it, he heard the note of their footsteps changing subtly and felt the corridor swaying slightly.
We are here suspended over space.
The corridor was brighter because of wide windows. Merral glanced out through them, seeing a space that stretched down far below them into the depths. He scanned around rapidly, his eyes sliding over cranes, elevators, containers, and empty stairways and platforms, but he saw no moving thing. Some way to his left he could see, converging toward them, a horizontal cylinder slung from the ceiling.
The passsageway to the other docking port
.
Are those we seek already on that?

Ahead, at a solid archway, the corridor changed back to its more massive form. Merral walked forward, his fingers tightening around the trigger guard.

At the archway, he paused to check that everybody was behind him. He saw that the arch was, in fact, a sealable doorway, and he gave thanks that the doors, apparently some sort of massive hyperglass, had been left open.
We are fortunate: had these doors been locked, our entry would have been much more difficult.
He put his hand out to the masonry and felt a faint, indefinite vibration as if from far-off machinery.
This is not a building; it moves and it orbits a sun. But it's not a spaceship either.

Ahead the corridor began to curve; the junction that was their target was barely a hundred meters away. Without pausing, Merral ordered a tiny signal relay placed on the walls and then walked on even faster. He rounded the bend and saw the junction ahead.

There!
He looked for recesses where they might hide and prepare their ambush.

He heard sounds from ahead to the left, and a new fear dawned in his mind. The sounds were of many people.

“Take cover!” he hissed.

As the team slipped into the alcoves on either side, the sounds became recognizable: yells, shouts, and cries.
It is them, and they are already at the junction.

In barely a second he considered—and rejected—the idea of a headlong charge.

“Helena!” She was at his side. “It's them. Can we pick off the guards?”

There were hurried orders, and he saw her brace herself against a wall and peer through her sights.

The field of fire isn't enough. We'd never get all the guards at once
.

“It's too far. With these weapons. The old sniper rifles, perhaps.” Aggravation colored Helena's voice.

We are too late! We travel a thousand billion kilometers and the last hundred meters defeats us!

Suddenly, a line of people emerged, moving across the field of view. Tall soldiers armed with weapons pushed cowering, bent prisoners. One raised a weapon and swung it down. The cry that followed echoed down the corridor to them. Merral, feeling his fingers digging into the barrel of the gun, heard the intake of breath from behind him.

In seconds, the front of the line vanished from view to the right.

Anger and frustration bubbled up in Merral's mind.

Luke was by his side and was whispering, “I counted ten guards and about thirty hostages. Looks like all of them.”

Guide my decision, O Lord.
And no sooner was the prayer made than he knew what to do.

Lezaroth walked into the upper command center. It was very dark, and the pools of greenish yellow light revealed eight men at separate desks. The man at the front desk in the dark gray uniform of a Support Services lieutenant looked up at him with a face stained with irritation. “Name?”

Lezaroth took an instant dislike to the lieutenant. There was always deep mutual loathing between the frontline military and the support services, but here he found an arrogance that particularly irritated him
.