Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two

by Deborah Chester

  Asan frowned at him. “You can’t help me with this. Keep an eye on Zaula and stay out of trouble.”

  Udge’s gaze kept straying to the Tlar’n and Bban’n around him. He looked troubled. “I’m not nuts, am I? You really are Tobei somewhere inside that golden hide, ain’t you?”

  Asan clapped him on the shoulder. “Just remember you’re a general. Try to be diplomatic.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Fear came up in Asan’s throat. He thought about the difficulties of what he was about to do and the danger. He swallowed hard to be sure his voice remained steady.

  “I don’t know, Udge. Stay loose.”

  Chapter 18

  Anthi greeted him with rapid pulses of light. Asan took a couple of deep breaths and told himself there was no point in delay.

  “Anthi, lower your shields,” he said. “We must join.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  The blue haze of light surrounding the crystalline, geometric structure that was Anthi faded. Asan stepped up to her and gently pressed his palms against the surface. It was not hard and polished, like it looked, but instead reacted against his touch with the warmth of almost living tissue. Their shields went up together as intelligence met intelligence.

  “This is the old purpose,” said Anthi.

  “Yes.”

  “Prepare.”

  Asan closed his eyes and extended his rings into the void. There was a flash of scorching energy that seared him. Perhaps he cried out, but he was no longer aware of the physical world. He was going back…back…Time streams flowed around him, some distorted into folds, others winding.

  He was falling into a blackness so black he could not see. He was falling into a depth so deep he became a speck, diminished and flattened. It was worse than seizerting, yet this was the greatest seizert of all, this displacement through the black hole.

  Infinite falling, falling toward no bottom, no end, no existence, no life, no feeling, no sentience.

  Then he felt an abrupt lurch, and for a moment he forked as though his consciousness became two separate entities. Blaise and Asan confronted each other, and Blaise knew fear. He could no longer survive without Asan, even an Asan that had essentially faded into subconsciousness. He tried to reach out. He tried to speak. But there was no movement and no speech here as they went on falling. They must get back together and re-merge before they slipped into separate time streams and were parted forever.

  Asan.

  It was Anthi. Gratefully Blaise clung to the point of reference she provided. Asan did also.

  Suddenly they were reunited as though two bands had snapped back into place.

  Light burst over him, as blinding in its way as the previous darkness. There was a sensation of tremendous heat, burning his skin and warming the air so that every breath brought the heat inside his body. The air was dry enough to sear his nostrils. He felt an urge to cough and mastered it.

  “Noble leiil?”

  The voice was gruff and strangely flat as though some of its modulations had been suppressed. Asan opened his eyes halfway against the glare of light around him. The sun, he thought in confusion. Then memory returned. Of course. They were engineering an enormous seizert hole out of the older of the two stars in their system. There wasn’t much time.

  His vision adjusted, and the puzzling moment of disorientation passed. He saw wide, undulating grass plains ahead of him, stretching out from the lake where water moss bloomed scarlet across its surface. Sisens called mournfully, splashing and diving and flapping their wings.

  The temperature was climbing steadily every day. By tomorrow it would be too high for the lake’s ecosystem balance. The water moss would die first as the lake heated its roots. The sisens were already beginning to leave although their normal migratory patterns would have kept them here throughout the summer months. He frowned at the scene, regretting what was happening, yet unwilling to stop it. Perhaps it was fatigue, but the lake shimmered before him like a mirage. He blinked and grew uncertain of its existence.

  “Noble leiil?”

  The gruff voice was more insistent this time. Asan pulled himself together and turned his back on the lake.

  “Yes?”

  Skulmaar stood before him, a sleek, bronze-hued giant who dwarfed even Asan. Warrior plaits framed his craggy face, and the sweat glistening on his arms made their bulging muscles look oiled. He wore a leather tunic that ended mid-thigh and was padded across the shoulders to ease the galling of the battle shielding he would soon don. His bare legs, each the size of a young orad tree trunk, were nicked and scarred from a lifetime of hard campaigning. His wrists were bound tightly with corybdium bands containing communication wires and shielding points.

  “Our ships are ready, leiil. The technicians say we must board and be prepared to launch within the hour.”

  “So soon?”

  Asan winced at his own words. It was a weak thing to say. Skulmaar, however, pretended he had not heard. He spoke again, but he was fading like the lake, and Asan could not hear what he said.

  It was only a memory, not reality. He fell again through the displacement, but this time he felt himself shoved sideways and realized Anthi was guiding him to the correct time stream.

  He found it, looped it upon itself, so that it progressed as time must but went nowhere. There were his Merdarai warriors, packed into their ships which flew in formation like birds of prey. The fearless Merdarai who obeyed him with a loyalty so unswerving they had even put themselves into this frozen eternity on his order without question, without regret, without hesitation for the families they left behind.

  His rings coalesced around him, augmented by Anthi’s power. He struck out with them in one precise blow that cut the time loop. The formation wavered, causing his heart to stop. But the pilots recovered. Swiftly Asan reached out to the mind of Skulmaar.

  It is time to fight, my warriors. Follow these coordinates.

  Then he was sucked away before he received a clear acknowledgment. He felt buffeted and swept along like a piece of flotsam on a rushing river. And he thought, Too fast. I am going too fast. I haven’t enough strength to slow down.

  As though he had been struck, he jolted back to reality and opened his eyes long enough to find himself still crouched on the floor at the base of Anthi, his hands pressed against her hot surface. His heart was drumming at a dangerous rate; his pulse pounded through his skull so that all he could hear was a roar. He felt weak and dizzy.

  “Anthi, release,” he said.

  The joining ended. His palms dropped away from the computer, and he slumped back, hitting his head with a thump upon the floor. It should have hurt, but he was too exhausted to register the pain.

  “Asan!”

  Unar and Ggil rushed to him and sat him up. He was limp, his head lolling like a child’s toy.

  “Did thou succeed? Did thou contact them? Are they coming? Where—”

  Asan blinked and frowned in an effort to be coherent. “Skulmaar,” he mumbled, and fainted.

  When he awakened, he found himself in private, sumptuous quarters carpeted with white borlorl fur and hung with tapestries. His bed cushions were soft and filled with fragrant herbs that let out pleasant smells each time he moved. He sat up slowly. His head was pounding, but he exerted control over that and eased the discomfort.

  He was also ravenously hungry.

  He reached for the mallet and tossed it at the gong. A Henan servant appeared at once.

  “Food,” he said. His mouth was so dry it was difficult to speak.

  The servant bowed and disappeared.

  Asan scowled and rubbed his face. He shouldn’t be sleeping when time was so short. And where—

  “Asan,” said Zaula, coming in. Dressed in a soft lavender robe and gold-broidered slippers, she looked tired and worried. “Please don’t get up. Rest some more.”

  “Rest,” he said in disgust. “Why should I? I was too weak to do it, Zaula. I almost got to them, almost
reached them, but I couldn’t do it.”

  She pressed her hand to his forehead. “You have done so much already. You cannot do everything.”

  “But that is what a Tlar leiil is for.”

  “I know, beloved.” She sighed. “Still, what is done is done. The jen cohorts have left.”

  “What?”

  “It is too late.” She pressed down on his shoulders when he would have sprung to his feet. “Hours ago. Noble Rroge stirred them up to go and surrender to the terms of the n’kai. Noble Unar made them wait for a long while, but when the Merdarai did not come, even he could not hold them.”

  Asan frowned, disappointment sinking through him. He had lost. He could never regain the people’s trust now, not after his failure. It was time to skip out, to blast off Ruantl and not come back. The thought left bitterness in his mouth.

  Zaula pulled away and crossed the room to get his clothes. She seemed subdued, but he could not blame her.

  “Where is Udge?” he asked.

  “He has gone to the ship.”

  Asan climbed to his feet in alarm. “He’s left?”

  “He spoke of it.” Zaula turned to look at him. “Was it your wish to go with him?”

  “We can’t stay here, not now. I’m finished. And so is Ruantl. I won’t live under GSI law. Never again.”

  A soft cough warned him of the servant’s return. Asan turned, gesturing, and the servant set a metal tray containing a small ewer, cup, and covered bowl upon a table.

  “At last. I’m starving.”

  Asan plucked off the cover, releasing a cloud of warm aroma. Bban stew, he supposed, detecting the fiery spices. He dug his spoon into it.

  He had gulped down five mouthfuls when Zaula began to cry. Asan stopped eating.

  “Zaula? What is it? I thought you’d be happy to leave. You never wanted to come back anyway.”

  Sobbing, she turned her back to him and gestured with her palm down. “No, it isn’t that. Please ignore me. I’m being foolish.”

  Frowning in concern, he put down his spoon. He went to her, encircling her with his rings. But she was closed to him, her grief tight and sharp within her.

  “Zaula.” He touched her shoulder, gathering her against him. “Please, what is it?”

  “Oh, Asan. Cirthe is dead.”

  She began to sob harder. Asan rested his hand upon her head, stroking her soft hair in an effort to comfort her. “I am sorry.”

  Zaula raised a tearstained face. “I know she didn’t love me. I never even shared rings with her. It was wrong to bring her into the world. She has been in torment since conception. And, oh, Asan, I tried to stay away. I tried to tell myself that although she was born of me she wasn’t my child. But I had to see her. She—she was so small, so frail. There hasn’t been enough food, and she…”

  “Hush now,” he said, tightening his hold around her. Guilt rose in him as he glanced at his tray of food. Even that meager amount made him feel as though he had abused privilege. Rations must be desperately tight here. And it was his fault, ultimately, for he had shut down Anthi and the means to grow most of the cultivated food.

  “I’m sorry, Zaula. Very sorry.”

  The words seemed inadequate against her grief. He tried to find another way of apology. He wanted so much for her to be happy.

  “When we are free, Zaula, we shall make another child. Yours and mine. It will have a happy birth, and its rings will be whole. I promise it.”

  Slowly she looked up at him. Her eyes—drenched and lovely and so sad they tore his heart—gazed deeply into his as though seeking a better assurance even than his word.

  “Come.” He forced her to sit down at the small table. “Eat the rest of this.”

  She shuddered. “I can’t.”

  “You must. When have you last eaten? You must keep up your strength. Please, Zaula. I wish for you to have it. Starving yourself will not bring Cirthe back.”

  “I know.” Bowing her head, she dipped the spoon into the stew, but did not eat.

  He sighed and reached for the clothes which she had pulled from a chest. Dressing quickly, he buckled on his weapons.

  “You aren’t going to Udge, are you? You’re going to stay.”

  The despair in her voice made him turn. He tried to lie, but the words stuck in his throat. “Zaula—”

  “We could go anywhere and yet how could you live so far away from your people?” she said softly. “Whether they serve you or not, you remain their leiil.”

  “I must try one last time to help them,” he said helplessly. “All my life I’ve scratched and kicked and struggled to climb out. I’ve made my own luck and laughed at failure. Everything I’ve learned tells me to run now while I have the chance. But I can’t.” He shook his head. “I just can’t. I know so clearly what will become of them if I go.”

  “They are thy children,” said Zaula. She looked at Asan as though she thought this would be the last time she ever saw him. “Go to them. The gods’ hands are upon thee, and thou cannot turn aside.”

  He touched her face gently, aching at her bravery, and told himself he was a fool. His throat closed up, cutting off the words he should have said.

  He strode out quickly and winced as he heard her weeping behind him.

  The caverns were deserted except for huddles of Bban females and wailing children. It was the cry of hunger, and guilt stabbed him again. Glancing away, Asan quickened his pace.

  Outside, only his shuttle remained on the transport pad. It was a dark, stormy day with ominous clouds streaking the amethyst sky. He glanced up, wind buffeting his mask, and hastened over to the shuttle.

  “Udge?”

  “You took your time, Tobei.” Udge poked out his head, his face hidden behind the polarized plate. “This baby’s ready to lift off anytime you are. And I’d recommend cuttin’ out before any of your ugly friends come back. What were you tryin’ to pull, anyway?”

  Asan gestured impatiently. “It didn’t work. Udge, I can’t go. I belong here now.”

  “You don’t belong on a GSI world,” said Udge angrily. “I saved you once, but I won’t do it again. Be a fool if you want.”

  He pulled himself back into the shuttle, but Asan reached through the hatch and grabbed his arm.

  “Udge, I need your help to get to Kichee.”

  “The hell you do. I ain’t gettin’ into this one. No.”

  “Just fly me in. Then you can go.”

  Udge jerked free. “And what about the little dandy? You leavin’ her here? What happens to her when you don’t come back?”

  “I’m coming back.”

  “Oh, sure! If the Institute don’t kill you, your ugly buddies will. They were madder than hell when they went out of here.”

  “Udge, I—” Asan frowned, unable to find the words. “I know it’s crazy.”

  “Damned sure is. The Tobei I knew had better sense.”

  “The Tobei you knew doesn’t exist anymore! I’ve changed. I—I can’t just go off like a coward.”

  “Survival, boy! Survival!”

  Asan’s smile inside his mask was twisted. He knew Udge was giving him good advice. And he knew that if he took it he would never have peace again inside himself.

  “Some things are worth more than mere survival.”

  “Aw, hell. That sounds like principle or somethin’. Even kings fall off their thrones, Tobei.”

  Asan looked at him. “Just drop me there.”

  Udge said nothing, just grunted and vanished inside the shuttle. Asan followed him and closed the hatch. He stood in the hatch area, bracing himself with planted feet as the shuttle took off and circled.

  “East,” said Asan. “Stay low.”

  They cleared the lower peaks of the Tchsco range and headed out across the Ddreui plains. Silvery grass rippled there beneath the wind. A chaka herd stamped as the shuttle flew over. Asan watched grimly, comparing this bleak land to the fertile one of his deeper memories.

  For an hour they flew straigh
t and low, detouring once to avoid being sighted by an Institute ground patrol moving along at five kilometers per second in squat, armored vehicles with treads that crushed patterns into the black sand.

  “I’m pickin’ up all kinds of activity on the scanner,” said Udge. “Ahead of us is a fleet of ships comin’ in from the east. They have to be registerin’ me. So where do you want to be dropped off?”

  Asan straightened. That was it, then. Udge wasn’t going to reconsider. Asan would go in alone and die for principle. It sounded like a stupid old vid-cast plot. He used to watch those sometimes in bars and laugh. Now he wasn’t laughing. But he was still going in.

  He looked out the port. The ground below was rougher, stony, and breaking into low gullies. He secured his mask into place and drew a deep breath.

  “Here,” he said. “Do a low hover. As soon as you see me on the ground, bank off.”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “Udge…good-bye.”

  “Hell. Just go!”

  As the shuttle steadied, Asan gathered himself and seizerted to the ground. He caught himself with bent knees to cushion the impact and rolled twice before coming upright. Breathless, he lifted a hand at the shuttle.

  With a roar of its engines, it headed west.

  Asan stood there a moment, surveying his surroundings. Nothing but thornbushes grew along the rocky sides of the gullies. The sun was out here in a cloudless sky, and it glared off the white shale. He squinted and drew his strifer. Taking his bearing, he seizerted again.

  The Institute camp at Kichee was small, containing just a handful of soldiers, three perma-flex huts for the officers, and an armored vehicle parked in a flat-bottomed gully out of the way. The huts were rowed off to the south of the well. Grass, looking lush and peculiar against the barren backdrop of the terrain, grew in a carpet around the well. Water seeped from the stones that had been piled around the well’s mouth centuries ago. A wind-twisted tree perhaps only twice Asan’s height stood sentry over it with nhulks fluttering on the branches like spectators of what was to come.

  Asan had come in on the guidance of Aural’s mental pattern. When he appeared in a flash of blue fire in her hut, she was reclining upon a bunk, looking distinctly bored. A human with commander stripes on his gear suit sat on a chair. He jumped to his feet with an oath at Asan’s appearance and reached for his communicator.