“Your father?”
I nodded. “Luther Burdock.”
Tast’annin gestured impatiently. “Luther Burdock was executed shortly after the Third Ascension.”
“No,” I said softly, “he is alive. The Alliance found his DNA master and regenerated him. I have seen him. Last night, on a ’file transmission from the Element. There is no doubt in my mind but that it was our father.”
Captain Novus whistled. “They cloned Luther Burdock? But you’ve only seen a ’file—how can you be sure?”
“I remember him,” I said, nearly in a whisper.
“Remember him?” echoed Nefertity.
“They’re clones of his daughter.” Rage gave Tast’annin’s crimson mask a demonic aspect. “The energumens all share her memories, up until the time of the first successful cloning experiment. There have always been rumors that he had set aside his own DNA material, in case he was assassinated.”
“He is alive. I saw him,” I repeated.
Tast’annin turned to Nefertity. “This is how they will be able to reproduce and have normal life spans,” he said. “Among his effects there were records alluding to further work he intended to do with the Kalamat strain—he thought they could be manipulated so they could breed, and the matter of extending the life spans of geneslaves is really a very simple thing. But after his death this simple thing eluded us. Eventually the Ascendants turned it to their own purposes, shortening the lives of the geneslaves to a few years.”
From down the hallway came a faint noise, the sound of the doors in the docking area opening.
“They have arrived,” I said. “My brothers.” I looked at Captain Novus and said, “They will be armed and will kill any human on sight.”
“Captain Novus,” Tast’annin began; but Nefertity cut him off.
“She is under my protection,” she said in a low voice, but there was a cold warning in her tone. “They will not harm her.”
She turned, and Tast’annin and Captain Novus with her. We watched as the doors slid open, and the rebels entered Quirinus.
One does not become an Ascendant Imperator without developing a certain intuition regarding the minds and motives of others—even energumens. I did not believe the one who called herself Kalamat was lying to us. But she seemed unsure of herself. Despite her brave words, her girlish voice betrayed her. She seemed restive, almost frightened. She had said that she was nearing the end of her thousand days. That might have been what caused her unease, but I detected a desperation in her that I feared might endanger Valeska Novus, if not myself and Nefertity.
And what of the others on Quirinus? How many were there, and were they prepared to fight against their brothers? Certainly Kalamat would be a formidable enemy. Over seven feet tall, golden-skinned, and with the enormous opaque eyes of her kind, like those black crystals the Emirate uses to hone their telepaths.
Still, there was something bizarrely childish about her, not in her appearance but in her mannerisms and voice. The nervous manner in which she moved her great long-fingered hands, as though unsure where to put them; the way she had called Nefertity “Mother.” I had seldom seen an energumen who invoked in me any sense of pity, any feeling that I was dealing with another human being, rather than a heteroclite.
But Kalamat put me in mind of that other creature I had seen so long ago, her namesake at the NASNA Academy. It was not long after we had seen that Kalamat in our classroom that Aidan Harrow had killed himself. I always wondered if he had glimpsed himself in that pathetic chained monster; or if in his arcane books he had read something of the tangled destiny of those demonic creatures, perhaps the Final Ascension that Jude Hwong had predicted. A destiny that it seemed might now be coming to pass; a destiny the thought of which had driven Aidan Harrow mad.
But this was no time to dwell upon such matters. I heard the sound of many large, soft feet treading upon the floor. I looked up, and faced the rebels from the Asterine Alliance.
“Greetings, Imperator Tast’annin! And greetings to you, O my sister.”
The same girlish voice as Kalamat’s rang through the chamber. I gazed into the same face as well, though set within a young man’s frame, and with skin of a deep red hue. He was not as extravagantly scarred and tattooed as Kalamat. His teeth were filed, and he carried a curved blade like those borne by janissaries within the Archipelago. An incongruously small blade within that powerful grasp, but no less threatening. Behind him stood others, perhaps a dozen or more. All were armed with flame guns and other weapons pilfered from their Ascendant Masters’ armories on Helena Aulis.
It was the creature that stood beside Kalamat that made me wish I held one of those weapons myself. He was an energumen like Kalaman’s own reflection made flesh, save that he had only one eye, and that eye gleefully ablaze with a hatred he took no pains to conceal. A number of tiny gold rings dangled from his brow. When he saw me, he laughed, and the rings jingled with a fine, chilly sound. If anything, he looked more dangerous than his twin, beautiful but with the contained madness of a caged eyra or jaguarundi.
“Who are you?” I demanded of the first interloper. I did not ask how he knew my name.
“You may call me Kalaman. This is my beloved brother Ratnayaka, and my other brothers—so.” He waved the curved sword at those standing behind him. “We have been sent by our illustrious general Metatron to claim you and escort you to the Element.”
There were not many of them. I counted thirteen, although I feared more might still be arriving. Along with those weapons, they might have stolen their masters’ deathly manner. I had never seen such raw loathing and fearlessness in the face of any geneslave. Indeed, they might have sucked away my own courage. For as my suspicions regarding this murderous rebellion grew, so did a part of me that I had thought died in the Engulfed Cathedral. That will to life, which looks into the abyss and sickens, refusing to acknowledge the notion that there can be an end to humanity as there has been to so many other things in our world. But it was this same will that empowered me to parry with the rebels.
“I answer to no one, man or energumen. You may tell General Metatron that. Leave us now.”
Kalaman hissed softly between his pointed teeth. He glanced at the one beside him, the one he had named Ratnayaka, and it seemed that a faint apprehension tugged at his eyes. Then he looked at Kalamat standing in front of us. He said, “Are you trafficking with Tyrants now, sister? Is that why you would not heed me when I called you?”
“Any fool can see he is not a human,” Kalamat replied coolly.
“I did not say he was a human, sister. I said he was a Tyrant. ” Kalaman’s eyes flashed. I thought he would strike her, but then his brother Ratnayaka spoke.
“You will come with us, Tast’annin,” he said in that sweet high voice they all shared. He smiled, shaking his head, and the little gold rings made a faraway sound, like rain pattering on a dry shore. “And my sister, and—”
He looked from Captain Novus to Nefertity, and then turned to Kalaman, puzzled. “They have a construct, my brother—did you know of this?”
Kalaman frowned, drew his sword to his face, and stroked his cheek with the flattened side of the blade. “Is that your replicant?” he asked.
I felt a sudden surge of elation. Their Oracle had told them they would find me here, but it seemed that Metatron as yet knew nothing of Nefertity.
“It is,” I replied cautiously. “And this is my aide-decamp, Captain Novus.”
Kalaman continued to stare broodingly at Nefertity. I waited for him to remark on how much she looked like Metatron, but he only muttered, “Yes. Yes, the Oracle told me you were accompanied by two others. But enough!—
“Do you come willingly, or—”
He raised his hand. Several of his brothers surged forward, weapons ready. I glanced at Valeska and Nefertity. Both stared watchfully at Kalaman and his troops. If Novus felt any fear, the energumens would never see it.
But they would kill her as soon as look at her, I
knew that; might well end up doing so. I would not have her die defending me, especially as it seemed we had no recourse but to surrender.
“We will go with you,” I said at last, “but not as hostages. No bonds, and we stay together. Else we will all die here.”
I waited, half-expecting Kalaman to order his brothers to turn fire upon us, but he only shrugged.
“As you wish, Imperator.” Like a child, he seemed already tired of this play. He turned to Kalamat, tipping his head to one side and gazing at her with intent black eyes.
“What of us, then, O my brother Kalaman?” she asked, her head raised as she towered above me.
“What indeed?” he countered, and smiled. “It is a small envoy you have sent to greet us. I have not seen our sisters yet. Where are they?”
Kalamat regarded him coldly: like Cruelty and Spite staring at each other across the room. Finally she said, “Waiting. They are waiting. Does your Oracle intend to make soldiers of us?”
Kalaman looked at Ratnayaka. “Soldiers? Yes, I believe we will all be soldiers. The elÿon is bound for Cassandra. From there I do not know where we will go; but Metatron has hinted to me of a special journey that we chosen ones will make.”
“No!” Kalamat cried. “I will not go! I have only a few days left before my death finds me. I will see our father in Cassandra, or else I will remain here.”
Again Kalaman only shrugged. “As you will.”
But at his side Ratnayaka narrowed his single eye and gazed shrewdly at Kalamat. He said, “Metatron will decide who lives and dies, and where they will do so. You had best tell your sisters to gather their things, Kalamat. Our elÿon has an adjutant who is also scheduled to die quite soon.” He grinned, showing pointed white teeth, and added, “Your brothers will grow hungry if we wait too long.”
Kalaman hissed something at him. Ratnayaka dipped his head in a show of obeisance, then reached out and grabbed his brother’s arm, pulled Kalaman until his face was inches from Ratnayaka’s own.
“Dearest brother,” he murmured, and kissed Kalaman on the mouth. Without another word he pushed him away, turned, and marched back through the ranks of waiting energumens. Kalaman watched him broodingly, then darted a glance at me, frowning as he fingered the hilt of his sword. Finally he strode across the hall to follow his brothers.
“You can’t mean to go with them, Imperator!” Valeska Novus cried when they were out of sight.
“We have no choice,” I said. “They would have killed you and dismantled Nefertity, and destroyed me as I tried to defend you both.”
I turned to Kalamat. “You will go with us? To Metatron?”
“To my father. I care nothing for this Oracle, and less than that for my brothers.” She spat and lay her hand upon her scarred breast, and looked over at Nefertity. “And you, Mother? Will you walk with me? I would like to speak with you and learn how it is you know the hymn to our Mother—and other things too. I would ask you of this Oracle called Metatron, which is as like to you as I am like my sisters—”
“Of course. We will walk together now, and talk,” Nefertity said, holding out her gleaming hands toward the energumen. Kalamat took them and for a moment they stood there, the smaller shimmering figure of the nemosyne in the monster’s shadow.
Then, “I will get my sisters,” Kalamat said. Nefertity nodded. Together they walked back down the corridor toward the center of Quirinus. Valeska Novus and I watched them go. Then we turned and strode down the long hallway that had swallowed Kalaman and his brothers, to board the Izanagi and join Lascar Franschii on his final voyage.
13
Icarus Descending
SOME TIME AFTER DR . Burdock and the replicant Metatron had disappeared, a young man named Edward Dean entered the chamber where Jane and I sat anxiously eyeing the energumens and aardmen. “I’ll show you to your quarters,” he said, beckoning us to follow him over the waterfall bridge.
“You’re the first person we’ve seen here, except for Dr. Burdock,” Jane said as we followed him through a wide, downward-leading tunnel. Edward Dean looked at her, puzzled.
“But there are people everywhere.” He was small and wiry, with short curling reddish hair and the same drawling voice as Trevor and Cadence Mallory. “I saw you with them—Suniata, and those others back in Dr. Burdock’s office.”
Jane shook her head. “I meant people— human people—”
Edward stopped, his gingery eyebrows raised in surprise and, I realized, embarrassment on Jane’s behalf. He lowered his voice, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else had heard.
“Oh, but those are people, Jane,” he said with great earnestness. “Everyone here is treated just exactly the same. That’s the whole meaning of the Alliance: no more slaves. Everyone is treated the same, ” he ended firmly.
“Except for human prisoners like us, I expect,” said Jane.
Edward shrugged, pulling at the frayed collar of his blue uniform. “I don’t expect you’re actually prisoners. I mean, you’re members of the Alliance, aren’t you?” When we said nothing, he read it as agreement. “Well, then, you’re not prisoners—you’re rebels,” he finished, and walked on.
“Rebels, huh,” Jane repeated, looking after him balefully. “Well, among your rebels, have you happened to see a chimpanzee—a talking chimpanzee, name of Miss Scarlet Pan? She was abducted by one of your rebels. An aardman. Fossa. He was at Seven Chimneys with us.”
Edward glanced back and stroked his chin. “A talking chimpanzee? No, ma’am, I don’t think I’ve seen that. I don’t think I’d forget it if I had.”
Jane sighed. “No, I don’t think you would.”
The Paradise Caverns were endless. Each passage we walked through branched off into dozens of others, some luridly lit by electrical lights or sputtering torches, others black and ominous, with ineffectual links of rusted chain strung across their entrances and little handwritten WARNING! signs. Crates and stacks of supplies were heaped on the floor. Against the walls cartons and bales of wire leaned precariously, between sacks of grain and sodden bales of alfalfa and sheaves of wheat. Where grain had spilled upon the stone floor, it remained unswept and uneaten—I had seen no evidence of rodents, except for the bats that hung like sheets of drying meat in the reaches of some of the larger caves.
Weapons were treated with equal carelessness, and again I wondered how this so-called Alliance could be so successful. I’d seen no real evidence of organization, no one acting in authority except for the nemosyne Metatron and, perhaps, Luther Burdock—though Burdock seemed more of a human puppet, albeit a mad one, than he did any kind of leader. Yet somehow the members of the Alliance had managed to sabotage Ascendant and Commonwealth targets, at least enough of them to put by great stores of weapons and liberate those geneslaves who now called themselves rebels.
I slowed my footsteps every time we passed those seemingly forgotten piles of guns and other artillery. Once, while Edward Dean deliberated between which of two passages to choose, I caught Jane staring greedily at a row of sonic guns leaning haphazardly against one wall. Cadence had taken Jane’s pistol before we left Seven Chimneys. It would have been absurdly simple for her to grab a weapon now—no one seemed to be guarding any of the stores. Indeed, except for two uniformed men who greeted Edward with loud, even overstated, cheerfulness, we passed nobody at all.
But Jane left the weapons where we saw them. Perhaps she felt as I did, that we had seen enough killing since we fled the City of Trees. Or perhaps she was simply afraid.
We did see plenty of old signs. Edward ignored them, but Jane made a point of reading each aloud:
OBERON’S PLAYROOM
GRAMPY’S NICHE
THE FAIRY BALLROOM
ANGEL’S ROOST
MARTHA’S WEDDING CAKE
Edward’s interpretation of the same places was more mundane.
“That’s the secondary war room.”
“Aardmen’s storage rooms.”
“Mess hall.”
/> “Dr. Burdock’s meditation room.”
“That’s some big ol’ stalagmite.”
There were also many little metal placards warning visitors not to touch rock formations, informing us of the temperature inside the Caverns (fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, year-round) and the hours of the cafeteria and the Gift Shop (ten A.M . to six P.M .). More foreboding were the hand-lettered signs, inked on cardboard or warped sheets of plywood, the uneven letters spelled out painstakingly, as though by hands unaccustomed to holding pen or brush.
ICARUS IS COMING
ARE YOU PREPARED?
AD ASTRA ASPERA, VICTORY IS OURS!
CASSANDRA WELCOMES ICARUS
THE NIGHT IS HIS—SOON ALL WILL BE HIS!
Most ominous of all were placards that showed only a smudged swirl of white or gray paint, daubed with black to indicate a sort of eye; and underneath a single word.
ICARUS
“Who is this Icarus?” Jane finally demanded. We had been walking for nearly an hour, following a circuitous route that seemed deliberately planned to keep us from being able to find our way out again. Now we stood at a little crossroads where two tunnels met: a wide passage where cool air flowed and the sound of distant water echoed, and a second, very narrow corridor of stone, with rippling walls covered with the crystalline formations called anthodites, glittering spines that looked as though they would rip through your clothes if you brushed against them.
“Icarus?” Edward Dean stopped and eyed us suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“I mean these signs.” Jane tapped the corner of a damp curl of cardboard, her finger sending a filigree of limestone splintering from the wall. “Icarus, Icarus, Icarus. Must be an important person.”
Edward shook his head. “Not a person, really,” he said uneasily, then looked as though he had admitted too much. “You’ll see tomorrow.”
And we walked in silence once more, until the near-darkness grew oppressive and I finally spoke, as much to hear the sound of a voice as to learn something.
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