Soarers Choice (11 page)

“Have
a good translation, Marshal,” offered Myenfel.

“Thank
you.” Dainyl started to step onto the Table, when someone appeared on the
mirrored surface.

Chill
billowed away from the figure, a tall alectress clad in the green and gray of a
Myrmidon captain of Ifryn. Her form held a strange greenness, somewhat like
that of the ancients, but not exactly. Her lightcutter flashed at the guards,
cutting one down immediately.

Dainyl
clamped his own shields around her as she triggered the lightcutter.

The
bluish light flared, reflected from Dainyl’s shields back across her abdomen,
and she toppled, slowly, hitting the Table with a dull thud.

He
dropped his shields and lifted his own lightcutter, sensing another welling of
Talent, this one twisting and uncontrolled.

The
next appearance was that of a wild translation — half wild sandox from the neck
up, a wide triangular head with a glittering horn, and crystalline blue eyes,
and Myrmidon-clad below. Like the captain who lay on the Table, beginning to
turn to dust, the second translation held a lightcutter sidearm.

Dainyl
shot the beast through the chest, right below the neck. The wild translation
collapsed. Unlike that of the dead captain, the translation’s body remained
solid.

“Thank
you, Marshal,” Myenfel said, from beside the collapsed gray uniform of the dead
Table guard. “I’d suggest you hasten your translation.”

Dainyl
stepped onto the Table, but bent and dragged the dead form of the wild
translation off the Table, and then the collapsed uniform and equipment of the
dead Myrmidon captain — if indeed she had even been such. He straightened and
concentrated on the darkness beneath the Table ...

...
and the purpled darkness rose up around him with its chill. He began to search
for the brilliant white locator of Elcien, but as he did, lines of green
coruscated along the purple translation tube. So bright were the lines of green
that he had difficulty discerning any of the locator wedges.

One
green beam, struck his shoulder, and a combination of pain and... something
else — something that felt welcoming and familiar before it faded — knifed through
him. Another seemingly knocked his feet from under him, and that was nonsense,
because no one really stood in translation. There wasn’t the same physical
reality.

Dainyl
struggled, but the locators were gone — or blocked out for the moment.

There
was one green diamond in the distance, and he reached for it. Better to be
somewhere than end up dying nowhere or becoming a wild translation himself.

He
flashed through a green-silver barrier and...

...
stood bent over in a narrow tunnel, one so low that his hair still brushed the
roof. Warm air flowed toward him.

Where
was he?

He
glanced toward the light... and swallowed. Outside he could see a small flat
area, surrounded by rugged boulders. He recognized the place. He was in the
mountain cave of the ancients in Dramur.

He
forced himself to ignore the absolute impossibility of his location and eased
back until he stood — even more hunched over — on the silver rock mirror at the
back of the unnatural cave. There he concentrated, seeking not the purpled
blackness of the translation tube, but the plain and deeper blackness he had
latched on to before., His efforts seemed hard, and to take far longer, but...

...
he was in a dark chill, if not so chill as a translation tube.

This
time, he had decided to look for the locator wedges from outside the purpleness
of the translation tube. He sensed another of the amber-green squares, but
decided against trying that. He didn’t want another encounter with the
ancients.

Then,
through the flashing green beams and the darkness that alternated with
momentary green brilliance, he began to make out the locator wedges — except
they were more like cylinders, as if a triangle had been rolled so that the
vertex touched the base. That wasn’t quite it, because each side of the wedge
had been rolled, yet there was only one cylinder.

Dainyl
shook off his bemusement, and Talent-reached for the cylinder wedge that he
hoped was Elcien, and he found himself back in the purpled translation tube
with the whiteness of Elcien speeding toward him.

Passing
through the white-silver barrier was like passing through a mist of tiny unseen
knives.

He
stood on the Table, throwing up his shields full — barely before the bluish
beams of lightcutters flashed across him.

“Stop!
It’s the marshal.”

Dainyl
waited, then stepped off the Table.

“I’m
so sorry, Marshal. I’m so sorry, sir,” babbled the recorder. “It’s just that
we’ve had wild translation after wild translation for the past half glass. We
lost one guard already.”

Dainyl
sensed both the truth of Chastyl’s words, and his sincere regret.

“You’ve
got some of that Talent-green on you ... like all the wild translations did,”
the recorder added.

“That’s
from the ancient weapon the rebels used on me. It will take a while to wear
off,” Dainyl explained. He had grave doubts that was the full explanation, but
it was easier and more appropriate for the moment. “I need to get back to
headquarters.”

He
also needed time — that he was running short of — to sort matters out, if he
could.

In
the darkness just after twilight, Mykel and Rhystan sat at the single long
table in the small room that was the officers’ mess in the new compound — or
would be. The single bronze wall lamp cast but a haze of light that scarcely
reached the end of the table and the two officers.

“I
have to say that it’s good to sleep on a real bunk again,” offered Rhystan.
“How long that will last...” He shrugged and looked at Mykel. “Have you heard
from the colonel?”

“Not
a thing, but I’d judge he only got my report within the last day or so — and
that’s no guarantee that he’s read it.”

“You’ve
got a feel for these sorts of things. How long do you think we’ll be staying
here?” Rhystan took a last sip from the beaker of ale he had been nursing
along.

“I
don’t see us being sent off until the alectors return to their compound. The
two Hyalt companies can’t really provide perimeter security there and handle
road patrols against brigands. When the alectors start rebuilding the compound
— or if they make a decision not to — they’ll want us out of here pretty
quickly, especially if they rebuild. There really aren’t enough supplies and
provisions for us and for rebuilding and repairing their compound.” Mykel also
doubted that the submarshal wanted a Cadmian battalion around that had learned
it could kill alectors.

“Majer...
we killed alectors. We got a few here, and you took out more than that in
Tempre.”

“I
know. I worry about it. The alectors went to great lengths to create the
impression that they are unkillable. My guess is that we’ll be sent somewhere
out of the way, and somewhere that will cost us a lot of men. I’d thought about
resigning, or leaving, but...” Mykel shook his head. “It’s too late for that.”

“If
you do, more will die,” Rhystan pointed out.

“No
officer is indispensable, as much as I’d like to think otherwise.”

“I
didn’t say you were indispensable. I said more men would die. That’s because
you see things others don’t.” A twisted smile followed Rhystan’s words. “That’s
only true if you don’t go off alone and get yourself killed, like you almost
did here in Hyalt and again in Tempre.”

“In
Tempre, I had no
i.e.
that the lower level of the
alector’s building would explode.”

“Maybe
not, but everything was fine until you went first. You’ve led from the front
for enough years that the men won’t mind if you do something to assure that you
stay alive. The squad leaders and junior officers might even prefer keeping
their commander.”

Mykel
winced. “It’s hard. I’m not trying to be a hero or anything. I just don’t like
asking them to do what I won’t.”

“Majer...
look at it this way. You’ve done more than any of them have to lead from the
front. You’ve been wounded something like five times — if not more — over the
past two years. You’ve also proved that you lose fewer men in fights. So ...
they know you’re willing to put yourself on the line. Now, they’d prefer that
you stay alive so that you can keep more of them alive.” Rhystan paused.
“Probably not all the newer Cadmians know that, but all the senior rankers and
squad leaders do, and they’re the ones who count.”

Mykel
looked down at the still polished wood of the new table, then finally lifted
his eyes. “It makes sense, but it’s hard.”

“Mykel...
there are all kinds of courage. Sometimes, it takes more courage to let someone
else lead, especially if you’re the kind of commander who feels for his men.
And you are.” Rhystan stood abruptly. “By your leave, Majer?”

Mykel
looked’at the older man, then smiled. “Good night, Rhystan ... and ... thank
you.”

“Thank
you, sir.”

Mykel
sat alone in the officers’ mess for a time, thinking.

Why
had he had such a hard time seeing what Rhystan had pointed out? The older
officer had earlier hinted at what he had said so bluntly, and Mykel had
thought he had understood, but he’d still risked himself at times that he should
not have. There were other times when there had been no real choice. At the
very least, he needed to make those distinctions.

But...
how could he truly know whether he was making an accurate assessment, or
deluding himself? Had he really needed to lead the way down to the Table in
Tempre? No. Had he needed to scout out the rebel alectors in Hyalt? Probably.
Should he have led the charge against the rebels in Tempre? No. In fact, he
might have saved more of his men by holding back and shooting more alectors.

Then
there was Rachyla. Had he acted fairly and honestly in giving her the dagger of
the ancients? Or had he done so out of mere desperation, because he was drawn
to her, and knew he had to do something extraordinary to reach her?

For
those questions, he had no answers.

Finally,
he stood, crossed the small room, and blew out the lamp. He walked slowly back
up to the visiting officers’ quarters he had taken.

Once
inside, he lit the sole lamp, then sat on the bunk and pulled out the map of
Corus he had taken from the black chest in the alector’s Table chamber. He
opened it carefully, feeling the smooth surfaces. When he laid it out across
his knees and thighs, there were no creases where it had been folded. He took a
corner and flexed it. While he did not actually try to rip the corner, he could
sense that it would take tremendous pressure to tear or cut the map. The map
was not drawn on paper, or not on any paper Mykel knew, and yet it was not
cloth, either. Nor was it imbued with the lifeforce essence that Mykel had
sensed in the Myrmidon uniforms or those of the rebel alectors.

He
studied the depiction of the continent carefully, deliberately, but what he saw
was certainly not any different in outline or overall shape than any map he had
seen before. He continued to peruse the map, noting that fourteen cities all
were marked with tiny green octagons. Each octagon was framed by a colored
border edged in purple. Two of the octagons were Tempre and Hyalt. Others were
Elcien, Ludar, and Alustre. That suggested that each octagon had to be the
location of a Table. The one in Tempre was blue edged in purple, and the one at
Hyalt was bordered in amber.

Mykel
had to wonder at the placement of the Tables — if indeed that was what the
octagons signified. Some — such as those in Ludar, Elcien, Alustre, and Faitel
— clearly made sense. But why were there Tables in some isolated places, such
as Hyalt and Blackstear, and not in others, such as Sinjin and Southgate? And
the other thing was that the closest Table to the Aerial Plateau was the one in
Dereka — and it was still some 250 vingts away.

The
rest of Duadi had been a blur for Dainyl. He and Zernylta had gone over the
pteridon schedules for the next two weeks, and that had gotten more than a
little complex because Dainyl had insisted on keeping close to two full squads
of First Company in Elcien. Then he’d gotten a dispatch from Captain Elysara in
Lyterna. A landslide into Lake Vergren had sent a wave of water down the river
that had washed out the main bridge on the high road through South Pass. That
meant the high road through the Northern Pass was the only land route open to
the east for at least a month — and possibly until late in the following spring
if the winter snows were heavy. The pteridons out of Lyterna would have to be
tasked with helping with the repairs — and that rebuilding effort would be
overseen by the chief engineer of Lyterna — Paeylt. And that meant that the
high-powered roadcutting equipment — even more powerful than the lightcannon Rhelyn
had used at Hyalt — and the insulated suits to protect the engineers would be
in Paeylt’s hands. That concerned Dainyl, but there wasn’t anything he could
say or do about it.

Dainyl
had sent back a message agreeing to the use of Sixth Company pteridons, with
the stipulation that no more than two squads were used at any one time. He’d
also had to respond politely to the High Alector of Transport about the ‘ need
for more flier trainees from the sandox coach drivers, because Zelyert had
requested that Dainyl personally answer Alseryl’s charges that Dainyl’s
requests for trainees were unreasonable and that Dainyl’s strategies had been
exceedingly wasteful of alector personnel when Cadmians were available.

All
in all, after those incidents and his normal reports and budget preparations,
Dainyl felt he had been fortunate to arrive home only a glass and a quarter
late.