Chapter 4
the guardians, or guardian order, was established in april 2398 by imperial decree. its purpose is to protect the person of the solar emperor and his family, and has functioned as a self-governing security service within the empire. its original commander, commander owen garrett (in, ret.), was succeeded by dr. antonio st. giles, ph.d. (shiell institute, new chicago), in 2402 . . .
—Imperial Encyclopedia, 2405 Edition
it is enough for most—including most guardians—to know that we exist to protect the emperor. that is a noble calling: to protect the empire, it is crucial that we protect the imperial person.
but that is only the beginning of our path. what lies before every guardian is the passage through the gate of understanding, the gate of power—and the tools and skills we are given are only the point of departure for that journey. for most in the order, the gate is unknown and invisible . . . but for those reading this book, the gate is the goal. with what you are taught here, you will go beyond most guardians . . . you will open that gate and step through. then you will recognize what lies behind you as mere illusion.
—Antonio St. Giles, Master of the Inner Gate,
Opening the Gate,
Green Book edition, 2405
April 2422
In jump en route to ariel system
In jump there was nothing to see on Emperor Ian's observation deck, so it was largely deserted when the starship was traveling between stars. Most people who visited there projected something on the viewscreens—scenes from home, star patterns, anything but the inky nothingness into which light never penetrated.
For Alan Howe, there was no need. He could view the Golden Gate Bridge or the Anderhof Chasm on the wall of his quarters, and Astrography was much better equipped to show stellar configurations. The observation deck was as good a place as any to look into the deep darkness that—at the moment, at least—was Emperor Ian's entire universe. Once, during a conversation with Jackie Laperriere, they'd discussed the appearance of jump; she'd gotten a good look at it during her quest for the gyaryu, when the hangar doors of Fair Damsel had been opened by an enemy onto the nothingness out there. Ever since, he'd had a sort of perverse fascination with it, something that kept bringing him back to look at it from vantages like this.
"There's absolutely nothing to see, you know."
Alan turned at the voice and saw an unfamiliar face and an all-too-familiar uniform: all gray with no distinguishing emblems, no jewelry other than a single earring showing four hands grasping each other at the wrist.
"The zor call it anGa'e'ren," Alan said at last. "I don't know you. I'm—"
"I know who you are," the Guardian said, with no trace of emotion. "Colonel Howe. Emperor Ian's WS9."
"That's right. And you are . . ."
"Ah." He walked toward Alan. "Bradford. Cameron Bradford. I've just been assigned to Ian." He stopped about five meters short of Alan and gave a little bow, more an inclination of the head than anything else. Guardians weren't strong on handshakes or salutes.
"Really? What happened to Tom Jimenez?"
"Assigned somewhere else." Bradford looked away and out the viewscreen, then down at the console. It indicated that they were looking at a projection from Emperor Ian's forward visual array.
"anGa'e'ren.' The Creeping Darkness,' as I recall."
"That's right."
"And you subscribe to this zor myth, I suppose."
Alan tried to imagine what Jackie Laperriere would've said in response, but continued: "I wouldn't say that I'm subscribing to anything. It's certainly real enough for the People to believe in it. In fact, your predecessor and I had several discussions on the subject.
"Where has he been reassigned, by the way?"
Bradford turned and looked at him. For a moment there seemed to be the slightest hint of anger in the Guardian's eyes—then it vanished. Alan knew that look: he was being examined using Guardian techniques.
No one here but us artha, he thought.
"Somewhere else," Bradford answered at last. He sounded almost disappointed that Alan had turned out to be a human after all.
"Just curious."
"My briefing said that you are very inquisitive," the Guardian said. "You were on quite social terms with Jimenez, weren't you?"
"You're fairly inquisitive, too."
He hadn't meant it as an accusation, but Bradford seemed to take a step backward.
"I'm not here to waste time like Jimenez. I have a duty aboard this ship," the Guardian said. "I trust you'll remember that."
"Everyone aboard Emperor Ian has a duty, Bradford," Alan snapped back. "I trust you'll remember that."
Bradford glared at him but didn't answer for several moments. This is certainly going well, Alan thought to himself.
"I have work to do," the Guardian said. He turned on his heel without another word and stalked off the observation deck, the access door sliding aside and then closing as he passed.
"There's no accounting for them," Agropoulous said, tossing back his drink and setting the empty container on the bar. "Don't worry—we don't allow civilians in the Officers' Club."
"Glad to hear it. But he didn't seem much interested in socializing." Alan took a sip from his own drink. "I mean—he was rude, Jim. Insulting."
"That's the way they all are—as if their uniforms are on too tight."
"Tom Jimenez wasn't like that."
"Proves the rule."
"Why'd he get transferred?"
"Jimenez?" Agropoulous shrugged. "Not sure. I believe the admiral received the orders just before we left Zor'a. That's where Bradford came aboard. I've been so damn busy getting ready for Ariel I hadn't thought about it."
"I've been busy, too, and hadn't noticed . . . It's a little strange, don't you think? Reassigning a Guardian off a flagship just before attacking a major target?"
"They're all major targets."
"You know what I mean. We're working our way toward an important vuhl base of operations, a place that se Ch'en'ya thinks is the alien homeworld—and a key member of Admiral Anderson's staff is posted away just before insertion. Why?"
"I don't know. The Guardians do whatever they damn well please, Alan, and you know it. They answer to their commander and to His Imperial Highness—not to me, not to you, not to Admiral Master-before-God Anderson. There is no latitude for discussion and I have no interest in sticking my hand where it doesn't belong."
Alan considered that, then looked carefully at Agropoulous. "You know something, don't you?"
"I just finished telling you I don't know anything and that, anyway, it's none of my damn business. Didn't you read me?"
"Loud and clear." Alan looked his old friend up and down again. "But you know something."
"I—" Agropoulous looked away from Alan for several moments. "I'm in no position to . . ."
"It won't go farther than me."
"It had better not." The general lowered his voice. "From what I understand, Jimenez was reassigned particularly because he was the exception and not the rule. He was . . . a little friendly with officers and crew aboard this ship."
"Including me."
"Especially you. Don't take this wrong, old pal, but the last person a Guardian trusts is a Sensitive. They consider people in your line of work highly suspect—most likely to be Dominated. And, of course, you'd still scan as 'human' even so."
". . . most likely to—" Howe began, but Agropoulous held his hand up.
"I think it's a pile of crap, myself. I've seen you get us out of too many scrapes over the years to believe that line. But that's what they believe. They're a law unto themselves, Alan, and don't you forget it. Best if you just take Tom Jimenez' transfer in stride."
"I considered him a friend, damn it."
"Now, that," Agropoulous said, "was a mistake. He was a colleague and a comrade, but don't you ever think of him as a friend. As your friend, I'm warning you, Alan. Their agenda is different, and they don't take well to being questioned."
"I wasn't questioning. I just wanted to know—"
"Drop it. Just—drop it."
Zor'a System
The High Lord's rescue of Byar on the Plane of Sleep, along with the conversation with Laura Ibarra, had made Jackie restless; it might have brought about the dream that came to her a few nights later. However, she wasn't willing to completely credit her own internal emotions: Stone's people had manipulated dreams before, and she had no doubt that they would do so again.
In the dream she found herself walking along the parapets of Sanctuary, but it was not the familiar landscape she had seen first in her Dsen'yen'ch'a and then many times afterward. Beyond the walls were rugged mountains framed by the deep darkness of anGa'e'ren.
As she paused to look at the scene, she felt the sound of wings and turned to see a zor landing nearby. It was a figure she knew well and hadn't expected to see ever again.
"si . . . Th'an'ya?"
She stepped forward and grasped forearms with Th'an'ya, whom she had last seen walking toward esLi's Golden Light on the gyaryu.
"I ask eight thousand pardons in coming to you in this way," she said, stepping back. "I hope that I do not disturb you."
"I didn't expect to ever see you again," Jackie answered. "Didn't you go to esLi?"
"Servants of esLi can walk here as well as esGa'uYal," Th'an'ya answered, placing her wings in a position of honor to esLi.
"What is this place?" Jackie thought she already knew the answer.
"This is the Plane of Sleep—and in this place, this echo of Sanctuary, something is to happen."
"That's appropriately vague."
"I never became completely accustomed to your dry wit," Th'an'ya said, letting her wings relax into the Stance of Comradeship. "There is some event that involves you—and another as well. Someone close to both of us."
"If this is my subconscious talking," Jackie answered, glancing over her shoulder at the darkness beyond, "then I'd guess we'd be talking about se Ch'en'ya."
"My daughter," Th'an'ya said. "She causes you much disquiet. She is full of anger, but that is not what is troubling you."
"I'm afraid of what's going to happen to her. I think she's headed for some shNa'es'ri, and I can't foresee the outcome."
"What has happened?"
Jackie shrugged, not sure why she had to explain the situation to her own unconscious mind. "I don't know where she's gone," Jackie said. "And I'm worried about what she might do."
"You are worried," Th'an'ya answered, "that you have no control over what is to come."
"That's an oversimplification. I'm not her keeper, and I can't direct events. I am in the employ of the High Nest, and I do what they tell me to do."
"And what are they telling you now?"
"I haven't received any direction."
"Are you sure?"
"In twenty-five years at the High Nest, I've never been sure about anything. I expect that at some point, hi Sa'a will receive a dream—"
"Do you think she is the only one who receives dreams?"
"She's the only one that receives dreams that guide the Flight of the People," Jackie answered. "The only one whose dreams mean anything."
"Your first statement is true," Th'an'ya said. "But others have dreams that are meaningful . . . This one, for instance."
"Are you trying to tell me—"
Th'an'ya raised her wings in a stance that suggested she was awaiting a sSurch'a on Jackie's part.
"What are you trying to tell me? What am I trying to tell myself? That I can't stand by while things happen that are out of my control anyway?" She spread her arms wide. "What should I do—go after her and bring her back?"
"If there is a decision that she must make, would it not be better if you were there to advise her?"
"She doesn't listen to anyone."
"She listens to you," Th'an'ya said. "Even if she often discounts what you say, she respects you as Gyaryu'har and Qu'uYar."
"Her favorite word is 'Pah.'"
"Nonetheless," Th'an'ya said. "She listens."
"A wise person once told me, 'That the ear does not hear is not the fault of the voice.' Are you telling me that some of what I say gets through that arrogant skull of hers?"
"I am saying, se Jackie, that the most difficult thing for any friend to do is to speak when silence is desired. She may say that her ear 'does not hear,' but I believe otherwise . . . and in any case, it is not your voice that is at fault."
"So what you're telling me is that I need to speak to her, to tell her what I think—"
"And to hear her voice, as well. If you are correct—if there is indeed a shNa'es'ri ahead for my daughter—then she may fare better if you are there for her to hear."
"I'd like to believe that."
"I think," Th'an'ya said, "you already do."
Th'an'ya then lowered her wings into a posture of respect and turned away, walking and then flying into the mist. Jackie watched her until she was out of sight, and then the dream drifted away as well.
Just before leaving Zor'a, she'd had a brief conversation with the High Lord at A'alu Spaceport, in the High Lord's private suite overlooking the main concourse. Jackie had made up her mind to follow Ch'en'ya, but hi Sa'a wasn't just there to see her off: more to argue against the idea of pursuit.
"I appreciate your concern for Younger Sister Ch'en'ya, se Jackie," she'd said. "But do you not wish for intel to do its job?"
"I want to hear the story directly from her."
"Will it sound more convincing that way?"
"It might."
"Imperial Intelligence is searching for se Ch'en'ya. They are concerned"—the High Lord's wings shifted very slightly—"about a security breach. They are unlikely to be happy with . . . What would it be termed in Standard? . . .'playing cowboy'?"
"I'm not—"
"You are," Sa'a interrupted, gently. She placed her wings in a stance of honor—concerned, perhaps, that she might offend her Gyaryu'har with her bluntness. "Whether the Third Deputy Director endorses your actions or merely chooses to avoid criticizing them, Imperial Intelligence will not find favor with a lone operative interfering with their investigations."
"They don't understand what's at stake here."
"I suspect that they do."
"And, in any case, I'm not interfering—I'm going as a private citizen."
"With the gyaryu at your belt."
"I can't very well leave it behind," Jackie answered, placing her hand on the hilt.
"No, I suppose not." Sa'a turned away and looked through the one-way glass at zor and humans and occasional rashk, moving from one place to another. "I . . . understand that you are driven by dreams. I am familiar with that sensation: Is that what placed you on this flight?"
"I think my mind was already made up beforehand."
Sa'a did not answer, but merely turned to face Jackie, her wings placed in a posture of regret.
Kensington Starbase,
Kensington System
"Hellespont?" The harbormaster of Kensington Starbase, a middle-aged ex-Navy man named Kendall, took a moment to look at Jackie when he said the name of the ship. "Yes, I remember." He flipped his comp into his hand and said, "Hellespont. Transit details, format six," then walked to a console on one side of the room and waved the comp over a sensor.
Kensington Starbase had been an important naval base in a war zone a hundred Standard years ago, but now it was a civilian facility handling the transit of thousands of vessels every day. They were standing in the base's C-and-C (Command-and-Control center), an enormous room four or five times the size of a fleet carrier's bridge, located at the very top of the long spindle that pierced the wheel where the ships docked.
The ship-registry data appeared in the air. Thanks to Laura Ibarra, Jackie had seen the data before; there was still something nagging her about it, but she hadn't been able to put her finger on it.
"What was Hellespont's destination?"
"Right there." Kendall jabbed a finger at a set of coordinates halfway down the display. "Crozier System, from the look of it—outside the Empire. Hellespont is headed for the war zone."
Kendall was in constant motion around his C-and-C: He had a comp on a wrist bracelet that he flipped into his hand with long-practiced skill, passing orders to his underlings without even turning aside to look at them.
"Why would a merchanter head for the war zone?"
"You'd be surprised." Kendall raised an eyebrow, looked her up and down. "Yes, I expect you would be surprised. Soldiers buy things too—Crozier's out of the line of fire . . . well, to the extent that anyplace is—and there isn't an army or navy in the history of mankind that didn't have merchanters and service providers following along like hiaroo nipping at its heels." The hiaroo was a little domesticated animal native to Kensington Prime.
"What can you tell me about Crozier System?"
"What do you want to know?"
"I—" She held back on the first answer she thought of. She would need this man's cooperation if she was to get anywhere; clearly he was a gold mine of information, if she could just ask the right question. "What's the most prominent feature?"
"Metals. And lots of them—they've got a huge asteroid belt that's chock-full of resources. So, naturally, it's got lots of small shipyards "
"You mean for merchanters and that sort of thing."
"That sort of thing," Kendall agreed. "And other sorts of things. Scouts, scientific vessels, entrepreneurs—"
"Pirates."
"I'm sure that wouldn't be their choice of terms, but yes, pirates. One byproduct of a quarter-century of war: There's all sorts of ordnance floating around."
"I never thought of that."
"Regular Navy folks never do," Kendall answered. "Why would they? One use, throw it away. But scavengers have been picking debris off the battlefield since men fought with swords and pikes."
He's a regular analogy machine, isn't he? she thought. "So it ends up at places like Crozier System."
"That's right. And there's enough of it scattered around there that the Imperial Navy has never bothered to go in and clean it up. Can't say as I blame them."
"It's lawless?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. It has its own law, shall we say. I doubt whether someone capable of handling . . . unusual situations would have any trouble. Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Laperriere." Kendall leaned on the console and looked back at her, the lines of data in the air between them looking vaguely like a carnival mask. "I wouldn't think you'd have any trouble at all."
"I wouldn't think you'd have any trouble at all," she heard in her head as she stood overlooking the Kensington Station main concourse, looking through the comp display for a passage headed for Crozier or somewhere nearby. Yes, she told herself, I guess I've been in a few "unusual situations."
Suddenly something jumped out at her from the list of outbound vessels, crozier, it said: outbnd 1830. rxe e mhnesr.
Not a zor vessel; clearly not a human one. Not enough apostrophes to be a rashk name, she thought to herself. One other choice left.
Now, there's a challenge, she added, noting the docking location: Taking passage on an otran ship. She'd met no more than two or three of the feline aliens in her life; those were the most unusual ones, the diplomats assigned to the High Nest or to the Emperor's Court. The otran were the least gregarious of the four alien races within the Solar Empire; they remained almost entirely on their homeworld. They'd been discovered more than a century ago and had been brought along slowly and with great care by the Empire.
Sergei had briefed her on them years ago when she was new to the job. "Brought along slowly," indeed, she thought to herself, remembering it now: "Best way to handle high explosives."
The otran had one basic problem in their alien psyche: they simply couldn't walk away from a fight. Over time, their culture had developed a rather varied set of beliefs, and every otran adult was expected to pick the ones that he—or she—believed in. If one otran met another and there were differences of opinion, but both had acceptable beliefs—something about "forty-eight aspects of the Deity," she remembered—all was well and good. But if one of them had an unrecognized belief, there would be a fight—to the death in some cases, she reminded herself: their wars were largely proxy affairs, a sort of Olympics, with casualties—but there wasn't any way for two otran, or groups of otran, or nations of otran, to "agree to disagree." They considered that idea insane.
They also considered representative government insane, at least when it came to decisions where one side didn't completely convince the others. At least at the end of an otran proxy war the survivors slapped each other on the back and got drunk.
No wonder most of them stuck to the homeworld.
Well, clearly Rxe E Mhnesr wasn't sticking to the homeworld. Jackie was looking for some kind of cover, especially now that she'd gotten some intel on Crozier System; an otran merchanter would probably do the trick.
To the human eye otran are feline. Heavyset, with whiskered faces; bipedal, with seven-fingered hands: four long, gripping fingers and three short, delicate ones. They didn't purr or meow—their actual language consisted of clicks and pops, but a voder on the lapel translated that into Standard.
One of Rxe E Mhnesr's officers was standing at the loading-bay, ordering crew around as she approached. For one terrible moment, Jackie had a overwhelming feeling of déjà vu—she remembered another merchanter, another time and place—Cle'eru, and Sultan Sabah getting the Fair Damsel ready for jump.
She reminded herself that the universe was a different place now; Ch'k'te had gone to esLi. All she had left was his angry daughter, some jumps ahead of her, headed for esLi-knew-what.
The officer stopped and looked at her, intertwining his fingers in front of him. Means he's being friendly, the gyaryu told her; he can't attack you if his hands are linked like that.
Jackie looked at the strength in the arms and shoulders and doubted it, but took the gesture for what it was.
"How may this one be of service?" the otran's voder said for him.
"Greetings," Jackie answered, bowing. "I am—"
"Your identity is known," the alien replied. "I am Nel E Showan, and you are the Gu, Gry, Gyary—"
"Gyaryu'har," Jackie said. "It took me awhile to learn to say it, as well. Peace and prosperity to you, Nel E Showan," she managed, inclining her head and offering the greeting that the gyaryu thoughtfully supplied.
"Gyaryu'har. Yes. I thank you, but I find it curious that you are unaccompanied, and choose to have speech with this one. Have I offended?"
"Not in the least. I—would speak with your captain. I wish passage aboard your vessel to Crozier System, which is your next destination."
"Passage, is it." A group of four or five otran had stopped working to listen to the exchange. Nel E Showan turned to them and erupted in the otran native tongue; they scurried back to do whatever they should have been doing. "Pardons—eight thousand is the correct number, I believe. Laziness and idle curiosity must be dealt with despite the need for courtesy to a high dignitary."
"I completely understand." She smiled and inclined her head. "You aren't outbound for nearly three Standard hours; if I could return at a more opportune time—"
"No, no, by no means," Nel E Showan said. "Discourteous would it be, as your time is no doubt valuable. Please permit me to escort you to the captain's presence." He shouted something else in the otran language without turning around; a younger and physically smaller crewman came running out of the hold and took the comp that Nel E Showan handed him without looking. "If Gyaryu'har-person would follow this one . . ."
"Thank you." Jackie walked up the ramp with the otran, who had turned to enter the ship. She found her contact lenses adjusting automatically as she walked across the hold and into a ship's corridor; the lighting was a sort of harsh pinkish color. The odor was different, reminiscent of neither zor nor human habitations—but it was not unpleasant: a sort of musky, spicy scent. The public-address comm was a constant background of otran speech, all clicks and barks and pops. Her comp could translate if she gave it the task, but the meaning was clear: probably something like, "get that cargo stowed or it'll come out of your pay" . . . "Officer so-and-so to cargo bay such-and-such" . . . "Where's that crate of widgets? It was supposed to be on board two hours ago!"—all interspersed with colorful epithets, of course. A merchanter made or lost its money during the last few hours before jump.
After a series of turns and ramps and three decks up in a lift, Nel E Showan showed her into a large sitting-room, bowed, and left her alone. Another, older-looking otran was examining a display hovering in midair above a console. It was changing by the second.
He turned to face her. "This is an honor, madam. Welcome aboard Rxe E Mhnesr. I am Captain Showan—Kot E Showan."
"A pleasure," Jackie said. "Peace and prosperity, Captain."
"Fine things to wish for. Let us hope that they come to us both. How may I be of service to the High Nest?"
"Not precisely to the High Nest, Captain. I would like to take passage on your excellent vessel to its next port."
"Hrr," he answered. The voder didn't manage any sort of translation. She wasn't sure what it meant, but guessed that it was neither yes nor no. "This is a rather unusual request, a human seeking passage on one of our vessels. Why choose Rxe E Mhnesr? Surely you could command a berth on any ship you wish."
"You are traveling to Crozier System."
"Not to put too fine a point on it, madam," the captain answered, "but many ships travel to Crozier System. Indeed, many ships go there from Kensington System every Standard day."
"Yours is the soonest departure."
"In a hurry? Rxe E Mhnesr is a fine and noble ship, se Gyaryu'har, but not the swiftest. We are no less than four Standard days' travel from dock at Crozier Terminus, including real-space navigation. I am certain that a military vessel could reach it sooner. Ah," he said, gesturing toward a pair of large, well-padded chairs on one side of the room, "but politeness is forgotten. Please sit. Would you desire refreshment?"
The abrupt change of tack caught Jackie a bit by surprise; she walked with Kot E Showan to the chairs and they both sat. "No, no thank you, Captain. Indeed, I would not wish to distract you from—" She gestured to the constantly updating display.
"Hrr," Kot E Showan repeated. "It is my cousin Nel's problem to make sure it is all done, and done correctly. The brain governs, the hands direct, the back strains—but if the brain turns its attention elsewhere, hands and back must still continue their work. It would be a sad thing indeed if the master of Rxe E Mhnesr could not turn his attention aside for a few Standard minutes.
"Now." He extended his hands toward each other so that the long, gripping fingers touched. "Rxe E Mhnesr would be honored to have you travel with us to Crozier System—but one is still moved to ask why. It is curiosity, is it not?"
"I confess that it is some of that," she said. "But . . . I think it is also camouflage."
"Forgive me for not taking your meaning."
"I am following someone."
"I see." The long fingers pushed each other apart, then touched again. "No, I do not see. How can traveling on our vessel, slower than many, without the power of the High Nest behind it, help you pursue your quarry?"
"The person isn't precisely a quarry. This is investigative, not predatory . . . Well, I'm following her path. I want to know where she went and I'm not keen that she know I'm doing it. If she knew, she might vanish completely."
"A 'tail,' I believe the term is."
"Just so."
"Camouflage. I understand now. Do you place my ship in danger by this tailing?"
"I should hope not."
"You are unsure," the otran captain said.
"I cannot give you an ironclad guarantee of your ship's safety, Captain—but if you wanted to be safe, you wouldn't be going to Crozier System, would you?"
"Hrr. Just so . . . Very well, se Gyaryu'har." He cocked his head from side to side, and then extended his left hand palm-up. "Welcome aboard."
"I don't believe it."
Admiral Anderson and General Agropoulous stood in midair with the stars surrounding them. Faint lines extended from New Harare, Rivières, Wolfram Minor, Tamarind, Towson, and six stars where they'd destroyed vuhl naval facilities. Ten lines—and they all crossed at one place: SS Aurigae, a blue binary with a system only explored by unmanned probes and never visited by a manned Imperial Grand Survey ship. There were ten small enemy installations marked in close vicinity.
Emperor Ian's Astrography holo gave perspective: admiral and general could see in all directions, and could feel very, very small.
"She could have it right, Admiral. It could be the homeworld of the vuhls."
"Either they're terribly stupid, or they think we are. I'll grant that it's a major naval base. The last several major battles are in easy jump range of the place. But no enemy admiral would draw attention to its homeworld by basing a military campaign from it: Not to mention the fact that it has violent and regular solar flares. The bugs may be monsters, but there's no way they could have evolved in that environment."
"Ch'en'ya seemed fairly convinced. And the High Lord . . ."
"Dreamed it. I know: Ignore it at my peril. What she dreamed was that the system was the place of the damned or something."
"The Valley of Lost Souls," Agropoulous said. "And that's not exactly what she said." He reached into a pocket and took out his comp then gestured over it. "Let's see . . ." A string of text appeared in the air; he squinted at it in the starlight."'The path through that system leads through the Valley of Lost Souls.' That's what she said."
"Did Alan have any insight on that quip?"
"He said that she foresaw some sort of bad outcome when we reached it. The Valley of Lost Souls—"
"Yes, I know what it is." Anderson fixed his Marine commander with a frown that usually worked well on junior subordinates, which he knew was likely to roll off Agropoulous—but habits were habits. "So, did he think that the High Nest was against such a campaign?"
"No, sir, quite the opposite. It was his impression that the High Lord expected us to pursue the course . . . and that it would be some sort of ordeal for us, or the High Nest, or maybe everyone involved. The zor are a very fatalistic race, Admiral."
"So they've decided that SS Aurigae—keystone—is going to be bad news—and there's no avoiding it."
"That's about right, sir."
"But what's waiting for us there, Jim? We gather up the troops at New Harare, we take what's in between, and we tackle keystone. We start here—" He gestured at one of the outlying installations. "That one is ariel. Then we go after basalt . . . all the way to this one—" He pointed to a star very near Keystone itself. "Janissary. When we're all done, what are we going to find at Keystone System? The Destroyer? Surely not the vuhl homeworld, but . . . what?"
Jim Agropoulous had no answer. Instead he merely looked out at the stars.
Jardine City
New Chicago System
"Master Byar."
Byar turned from the hospital-room window. It was rashk weather outside again, and wherever he looked he saw r'r's'kn in the clouds. Still, he felt himself compelled to look—more than twenty suns had gone by since his experience with the alien tech, but the images haunted him sleeping and waking.
"ha T'te'e," he answered, inclining his wings in the Posture of Polite Approach. "I did not expect to see you here in New Chicago System."
"Did not expect—" T'te'e crossed the room to grasp forearms with the Master of Sanctuary. "The High Lord had me on a ship less than a sun after your encounter with . . ."
"I am interested in knowing how you intend to complete that sentence."
"Words fail me."
"As well they should."
"What was it, se Byar? What was drawing you toward it?"
"I cannot say what it was, old friend. It called itself 'Ór.' I do not know what the word means, except that it was known to the esHara'y: si Owen said, long ago, that it was the Ór that was watching him on Center."
"Did you see it?"
"Yes. It was a sort of box . . ." He described what he had seen, along with the feeling of malign intelligence he had felt from it. "At times," he continued, "words fail me as well. Every sun . . . Every sun since it happened, Dr. Wells has come to visit; he feels responsible—but more than that, he is curious." His wings made a halfhearted attempt to convey amusement. "He cannot make the alien device function and is afraid to ask me to try again."
"The High Lord forbids it, my friend. There will be no more experiments with tools of esGa'u."
"Dr. Wells will be disappointed and relieved, I am sure. For my part, I am merely disappointed. I wish I had learned more—I have brushed against the wing of the Deceiver."
"Most who touch the wing of esGa'u wish never to do so again." T'te'e's wings moved to the Cloak of Guard.
"I do not fear Ur'ta leHssa, my old friend, and I do not fear this Ór." He knew he was not being completely truthful, but kept his wings impassive. "The touch of the Deceiver will not make me idju or undo what I have done in my life. If it had been needful to transcend the Outer Peace during the trial with the alien tech, I would have done what was needful."
"We would have lost a great asset to the High Nest, se Byar."
"Another would have taken my place."
"I would not want that yet to be."
"Assuredly not." Byar placed his taloned hands palm-up on the windowsill and looked at them. A nick here, an abrasion there—the claws did not curl the way they used to. "But the time is coming as it must. You, I, even hi Sa'a will have to face the moment of Transcending. Some sooner than later . . . but there is no avoiding it.
"I will try to explain myself before I must choose that flight, se T'te'e. Unlike si S'reth, I do not think that my hsi would be safe being summoned across the Plane of Sleep." His wings rose in amusement again. "Still—I am beginning to feel like him in other ways: not just advancing age . . . I sense a new shNa'es'ri coming, one we have waited for since the war began."
"What else did you see, old friend?"
"Something I know that I have seen before: When we performed a Dsen'yen'ch'a many turns ago we saw this r'r's'kn—do you remember? We had no idea what it was—but the pilots from the fighter wing flew through it."
"I recall. Just before we witnessed Shr'e'a."
"Shr'e'a," Byar repeated. "That this r'r's'kn led to Shr'e'a in that Ordeal is a frightening omen. Shr'e'a means giving up the gyaryu."
"Again."
"Again," Byar agreed. "Do you know, we once believed that si Owen was the avatar of si Dri'i, the hero of Sharia'a. When si Owen was killed I realized what I should have known all along—that Sharia'a is a myth and always was, and that si Owen could never have been an avatar for anything."
"Then why did the true esGa'uYal rescue him from the vuhls—the esHara'y? What was the point?"
"Many years ago," Byar said, looking out the window at the clouds and the crouching half-revealed forms of r'r's'kn in them, "I told our friend se Jackie that Despite does not need a point. I was in error then, and I would be in error now if I told you that such a thing as si Owen walking the rainbow path was nothing, a false trail. There is some meaning to it—and there is some meaning to the Dsen'yen'ch'a, and in the Blessed Name of esLi there must be a meaning to his death at Port Saud.
"I feel that if I were a few turns younger and a few wing-lengths smarter I could tell you what it was." His wings dropped; T'te'e, alarmed, saw the position of Ur'ta leHssa: the Valley of Lost Souls. "The dust of despair is heavy on my wings, old friend. I am not sure what to do."
Outside, the storm raged, and every cloud held an echo of r'r's'kn. Whatever shNa'es'ri lay ahead, was beyond that rip in space; and despite the will of the High Nest, he knew that he would have to approach it again.