Empire: Book 2, The Chronicles of the Invaders (The Chronicles of the Invaders Trilogy)

by John Connolly

  Her true name was not even Elda, although she wore Elda’s face. The real Elda had died seven years before, taken from her loving parents by a weak heart. But before her death could be announced, Elda’s parents received visitors in the form of a pair of senior Military advisers. Elda’s father and mother were both loyal members of the Military who had watched the rise of the Diplomatic Corps with unease. Even in their grief, they lived only to serve. They agreed to hide the fact of their daughter’s death, and to accept another in her place: a young Illyri female who looked exactly like their lost child thanks to the wonders of ProGen skin; whose genetic profile had been manipulated to pass even the most sensitive of tests; who spoke and acted just as their own Elda had done. In fact, so brilliant was the replication that, in time, they almost forgot she was not their own child, and when at last she was accepted into the Sisterhood, they mourned their daughter for a second time.

  Elda: the female in that bare room in the depths of the Marque had worn her identity for so long that she had almost forgotten her own. No matter. Who knew what form she would take once she was gone from the Marque? The Sisterhood and their tame Diplomats would be hunting for someone who looked like Elda, so Elda would have to disappear. The process would be painful, but necessary.

  She stripped and put on the darksuit over her naked body, then dressed herself again in her Novice’s robes. She would leave them forever at the door of the Twelfth Realm through which she had chosen to escape. The darksuit would disguise her from most of the desert creatures. In general, they had poor eyesight, and relied on heat, movement, and sound to track prey. The darksuit would take care of the first two issues, but she would have to rely on her own stealth for the third. As for those animals that could see well in the dark, her pulse weapon might have been small, but it packed a huge charge. Anything that tried to eat her would end up as a spray of blood and gore on the desert sands.

  She put her blade in the wide pocket of her robes, checked her belt and pouch, and took one last look around the room. She felt no emotion at all. Already she was done with this existence. Yet even in this moment of departure and escape, Elda had recognized the possibility of failure. There was only one person in the Marque for whom she felt any affection, only one who had ever given any sign that she, like Elda, was no friend of the Sisterhood: Syl Hellais. With that in mind, Elda had taken a moment to ask a final favor of Syl. It was in Syl’s locker at the gymnasium: an amulet containing an engraving of Elda’s mother, or the woman whom everyone believed to be her mother, along with a note requesting that Syl find a way to get it back to her on Illyr. If Elda managed to escape the Marque, the amulet would be an additional record of her discovery. If Syl did not manage to return it to Illyr, nothing would be lost.

  But if Elda did not make it out of the Marque . . .

  Elda closed the door behind her, disabled the lock using a low pulse from her weapon, and then slipped the pulser up her sleeve. The more time that went by before her absence was discovered, the better. A Sister’s quarters, even those of a Novice, were considered her private realm—a realm within a Realm, as the older Sisters liked to put it—and any intrusion was frowned upon. The sealed door would cause delay and confusion, and breaking it down would require the consent of two senior Sisters. It was all valuable time that would enable her to get farther from the Marque.

  The Marque was always busy, even at night. While it quieted down during darkness, it never completely slept. The accumulation of knowledge could not, would not stop. So it was that few glances were cast at Elda—silly, dispensable Elda—as she moved along the walls, her head down, her dull eyes barely shining in the reflected glow of the lights.

  It did not take her long to reach the service exit. Few Sisters—those responsible for maintenance and engineering apart—ever ventured down to the lower levels. After all, what reason would they have to leave the Marque and wander out on to the sands? The service exits were only used by those performing repairs, and even then only rarely, for the Marque was built of the finest, strongest materials. Elda had discovered that some of the older service exits were not even fitted with alarms. Heavy doors and rather dated locks were considered security enough, although it had still taken Elda three years to gain access to the keys to two doors in particular.

  Now, standing before the door marked L4, she cast off her robes, removed one of those slim silver keys from her belt pouch, and inserted it into the lock. She had to trust that the shuttle would be waiting, just as they had promised. Activate the beacon, they had told her all those years ago, and a shuttle will be waiting for you at the agreed spot within two hours. It will stay there for a further two hours, then leave. If you are not on it when it departs, we’ll assume that you’re dead.

  Elda waited for the key to unlock the door. Nothing happened. She wiggled it, but still there was no satisfying click as the bolt undid itself. She took it out and examined it. It was definitely the right key. She had marked it just to be doubly certain. She had even performed a dry run the night before, and the door had opened easily. Yes, she could head for the second exit, but it would delay her. She could still make it to the shuttle, but it would be close—uncomfortably so. She tried the key one more time, but with no result.

  “Damn,” she said to the darkness.

  And the darkness replied in the voice of Tanit.

  “I think you mean ‘damned.’”

  Elda spun, the pulser slipping easily into the palm of her hand as she raised it to fire. Tanit’s face hovered in the gloom, but before Elda could activate her weapon, her hand erupted in pain. She looked at her fist and watched in horror as an unseen force crushed it, the fragile bones breaking, the knuckles splintering into shards inside her flesh until her right hand was reduced to a jointless, useless thing, packed inside a glove of skin. She screamed in agony and sank to her knees, but the pain did not stop. She both felt and heard the twin snaps as the radius and ulna in her lower arm began to fracture, then the humeral bones at her elbow, and finally the big humerus in her upper arm. Pressure followed on her scapula and clavicle, until Tanit shouted: “Stop!”

  Through her tears, Elda watched as Sarea joined Tanit. Sarea looked disappointed that Tanit had put an end to her game so quickly. Nemein followed, and then the others—Iria, Dessa, and the siblings Mila and Xaron—all staring down pitilessly at the wounded Elda, her right arm hanging useless by her side, the thin fabric of the darksuit like a vise against the shattered limb.

  “Search her,” ordered Tanit.

  It was Nemein who did it. She found the blade, and the second key. More important, she discovered the small stick drive containing all of the secrets that Elda had unearthed over the past four years. Needlessly Nemein brushed Elda’s wounded arm, causing her to scream again. Even then, as she faced her tormentors for the last time, Elda was amazed at Nemein’s casual, senseless cruelty.

  “I suppose you think that we’re going to interrogate you,” said Tanit. “You know, ask who sent you, who you really are, that kind of thing, but we’re not.”

  She squatted so that she could look Elda in the eyes. She spoke without hatred, without passion, only pity.

  “You see, we don’t care. Even now, at the end, you don’t matter. You’ve failed, just like your little friend Kosia before you. She told us everything right before we killed her—everything but your name. Unfortunately, she died before she could share that with us. But all that she revealed led us to believe that she had an accomplice, that there was another spy in the Marque. So we watched, and we waited, and we discovered you. I have to confess that I was surprised. You disguised yourself well. But now, like Kosia, you’re going to die.”

  She turned to Nemein.

  “Give me the knife.”

  Nemein handed the blade to her. Elda waited for it to pierce her flesh, but it did not. Instead Tanit used it to cut away the darksuit from Elda’s upper body, stripping her to the waist. She wielde
d the blade carefully, almost tenderly, so that the knife did not cut Elda’s skin but left only slight red marks upon it. Tanit even avoided touching Elda’s wounded arm, content to leave the remains of the darksuit upon it. When she was done she examined her handiwork, and nodded approvingly.

  “Much better,” she said. “And you have a cute figure. It’s a shame that you had to hide it away for so long.”

  Tanit reached into a pocket of her own robes, and produced a new key, shining and needle-thin.

  “I think this is what you were looking for,” she said. “The locks have been changed—as have all the security codes—but you’ve probably figured that out by now. Actually, we were concerned that you might have tried to leave last night. Yes, we were watching you even then. We could have taken you earlier, I suppose, but it was more fun to wait until you thought you were free. Oh, and about our most recent little encounter: consider your burns a farewell gift from us.”

  Sarea and Xaron stepped forward, and forced Elda to her feet. Tanit handed the key to Nemein, who unlocked the door but did not open it, not yet.

  “Any last words?” said Tanit.

  Elda drew herself up to her full height. She glared at Tanit, defiant despite her fear and pain.

  “I may not be the first,” she said, “but nor will I be the last. And I shall be avenged. Tell that to your Red Witch.”

  “You know,” said Tanit admiringly, “I never liked you until now.”

  “You know,” said Elda, “I still don’t like you.”

  Tanit shrugged.

  “You wanted to leave,” she said. “So leave.”

  Nemein yanked the door open, and with a swift push Elda was expelled through the gap. The youngsters inside had a brief glimpse of a rocky embrasure leading down to the desert, and Elda falling to her knees on the stones, before Nemein closed the door again and locked it.

  “Time for bed,” said Tanit. “It’s been a long day.”

  And she reached to turn off the exterior light.

  • • •

  Elda knelt on the desert stones in a cone of light. The night was freezing, and the pain in her ruined arm was fierce. She heard movement all around her as unseen creatures were drawn by the heat of her exposed body, and the smell of her fear. The light kept them away, though. They hated it. It hurt their eyes. Perhaps if she could survive until the sun rose . . .

  Then the light was gone. The memory of it burned in Elda’s eyes as something hard and sharp closed around her neck. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged, for her head was already separating from her body.

  And the feeding began.

  CHAPTER 14

  They called it the City of Spires. Tannis: the jewel of Illyr, the largest, most glamorous, and most populous metropolis on the planet. It was the seat of government, the center of power. It took its name from its architecture, the great slivers of glass and metal that extended like stalagmites into the air, seemingly scraping the very heavens above.

  Tannis, the City of Spires.

  Tannis, the City of Spies.

  • • •

  The building was known as the Tree of Lights. It housed five thousand of the most wealthy and powerful citizens of Illyr, all of them Diplomats or individuals with connections—professional or personal—to the Diplomatic Corps. Its security was exceeded only by that of the Parliament itself, with whom it shared a significant number of residents. In a city of tall slim structures, the Tree of Lights was notable for its unusual design: a tall central support column that housed offices and essential systems and then, spreading above it, a great crown of luxurious apartments connected by branches containing moving walkways and discreet elevators; hanging gardens that formed their own ecosystems within the building; and landing pads for the shuttles and skimmers used by its residents. The Tree of Lights was not uncontroversial. Some felt that its shape was not in keeping with Tannis’s architectural character, but since they lacked the power, money, and influence of those who had approved the design, funded its construction, and now lived in it, their views went largely unheeded. Anyway, as far as the residents of the Tree of Lights were concerned, they had not disturbed the cityscape of Tannis at all, for they were able to look out of their windows and see only gilded spires. It was for others to look upon the Tree of Lights, and envy those who lived among its branches.

  In one of the topmost suites, a Diplomat named Radis stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His bald skull was beaded with sweat, even though the room had instantly cooled to his preferred temperature as soon as he set foot inside. He ran the water again, delaying the moment when he would have to leave. He had already showered for so long that his skin had wrinkled, and his wife—his Nairene wife, for Radis had taken a newly ordained Sister called Paylea as his bride—would by now be wondering what was keeping him. They had only been married for a few months. Their betrothal had come as something of a surprise to Radis, but it was an honor that could not be refused. And Paylea was beautiful. Radis could still not quite bring himself to believe that she was his.

  Indeed, sometimes he doubted if she truly was.

  A tiny communicator lay by the sink. It was the reason why Radis was in the bathroom. After all, he could hardly tear himself from the arms of his wife to look at a message from a communicator of whose existence she was unaware. Soon, though, he would have to abandon it. He could hear Paylea in the bedroom. She had already asked him once if he was okay, and he had no desire to arouse her suspicions.

  “Please,” Radis whispered, “please.”

  The communicator blinked into life, and projected a message on the mirror: the shuttle had left Avila Minor without its cargo. The message remained in place for only a few seconds, then vanished. Radis immediately placed the communicator in the sink, and turned on the hot water. He watched as the communicator disintegrated and the pieces swept away like ash. He closed his eyes in despair. After so many years of waiting . . .

  When he opened his eyes again, Paylea was reflected in the mirror. She stepped behind him, her right hand rose, and the thin blade entered at the base of her husband’s skull. His last thought before he died was:

  We are betrayed.

  CHAPTER 15

  They were fortunate, thought Paul, but perhaps they had been due a little good luck. About halfway down the huge rock formation was a narrow ledge, barely wide enough to accommodate the exploration shuttle. Again, Paul marveled at his brother’s skill as a pilot. Here he was in an unfamiliar vessel, a sandstorm threatening to tear it apart and scatter its occupants’ remains across an alien desert, and somehow he managed to descend safely to the outcrop, the rock face so close that, had the windows been open, Paul could have reached out and touched it.

  The fury of the storm was astonishing, as though it were a living, breathing thing that was aware of their presence and frustrated by its inability to reach them. Even sheltered by tons of stone, they could feel the shuddering of the ancient tor as the storm flung itself against it. At its fiercest, Paul was convinced that their shelter would finally crumble under the onslaught, burying them under rubble and crushing the shuttle like a tin can.

  But eventually the storm passed, and they found themselves still alive.

  “I don’t think I want to do that again,” said Thula.

  “Agreed,” said Paul.

  Steven started the engines and took them up. Paul was staring out of the window, taking in the edifice that had saved their lives, offering up a prayer of silent thanks to it, when something caught his eye. He actually forced himself to blink, so strange did it seem, so impossible to comprehend.

  “Steven, take us back.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because that isn’t just a rock.”

  Steven brought them around again, and allowed the shuttle to hover before the face of the formation. All but the still-unconscious De Souza came
forward to look.

  The sand had scoured the face of the formation, causing sections of it to tumble to the sands below. Revealed in the spaces were the remains of intricate carvings: doors, windows, even hints of figurative sculptures—an eye here, what might have been a limb there. The doors and windows were huge, many times larger than those that might have been found in an Illyri or human abode. With these constructions exposed, the rock now reminded Paul of a ruined steeple of one of the great cathedrals back on Earth. There was a grandeur to it, even in the small sections visible to them. But age, and the damage caused by the storm—and doubtless many storms before—made it difficult to gain any full conception of the nature of its creators, if they had indeed depicted themselves on its walls.

  None of them spoke. They could only gaze. Peris alone, it seemed, was not as shocked as the rest of them. Paul could tell from the Illyri’s face.

  And Paul knew.

  “You’ve seen something like this before,” he said.

  Peris nodded.

  “Who built it?”

  “We don’t know,” said Peris. “We’ve found traces of another civilization scattered throughout galaxies in this region. This looks old, even by the standards of what we’ve already discovered. Some are more recent than this one.”

  “Maybe those silicon creatures ate them,” said Rizzo.

  “If they did, they took their time,” said Paul. “They left them alone for long enough to let them carve out a home, or a temple, in the center of a rock.”

  “Perhaps there are more,” said Thula. “After all, it is not the only such rock on this planet.”

  Yet, Paul thought, this one was different. He recalled the formations that they had passed over, and between, on their journey to the drilling platform. They were more angled, sometimes lying at a forty-five-degree incline to the desert floor. This rock was perfectly vertical. It made him wonder if it was less a building carved into a rock, and more a building disguised to look like one.