“Shh!” Crocker hissed. “I’ll do the talking.”
With that, the pilot stepped forward slowly, raising his right hand in the classic greeting. “Brothers,” he said, his voice confident, controlled, “we’re glad to see you …” He hesitated as there was no answer, no sign of recognition from the other side. One hand went to his forearm panel to make an adjustment. “Wideband broadcast,” he said to himself, then continued boldly, “We’ve come from Earth.” No response. “From Earth.”
At this a harsh, guttural growl issued from one of the colonists—more a bark than a voice.
It was difficult to tell which one had shouted, but Treet saw a figure in the center two-wheeler jerk his hand upward and the men around him disembarked, stepping from the vehicle to advance cautiously toward them, weapons at the ready.
“Tell them we’re friendly,” Treet said urgently. “Tell them, Crocker!”
“We’re friends. We’ve come from Earth,” repeated the Captain, to no avail.
The line of men stopped just short of the travelers, and the man who had given the signal approached. He stepped closer and examined each of them carefully, his dark faceplate reflecting sunlight like the shell of a beetle.
“What is this?” Treet addressed the man. “What’s going on? Why don’t you speak to us?”
The man appeared not to have heard, but went on with his inspection, moving to Pizzle, Talazac, and Crocker in turn. The colonist stepped back a pace and looked at them, as if trying to decide what to do next. Clearly their presence here posed some kind of problem for the colonists. Treet sensed that a decision was being made and that the next few moments were critical. He had to break through to them, but how?
“We’re from Cynetics,” Treet said, speaking out suddenly. The colonist and his men jerked their attention to Treet. “Cynetics,” he said again, repeating the word distinctly.
At the word, a garbled mutter broke out among the colonists. Treet heard it in his helmet as a gibber of voices talking over one another with subdued excitement, whereupon one voice cut through the others with a shout, and there was silence again.
The colonist raised his hand and pointed at Treet and said something, his low voice buzzing. Two men stepped forward quickly and grabbed Treet by the arms.
“Hey! Let me go!” cried Treet. “Hey!”
“Stop!” shouted Crocker, dashing up.
“Help!” Treet struggled in the grasp of the colonists, but they hauled him bodily along. “Shoot them!”
Behind him he heard the sounds of a scuffle: short breaths, grunts, and curses—presumably from Crocker and Pizzle; a gabble of thick, unintelligible syllables, from the colonists.
The fight sounds halted abruptly. In order to see behind him, Treet had to turn his whole upper torso around, which was difficult, pinioned as he was between the two who were dragging him toward the center two-wheeler. When they paused at the vehicle to shove him in, Treet managed to twist around. He saw two bodies lying on the platform, and the third—Yarden?—being dragged to one of the other two-wheelers.
“Crocker!” he screamed. “Pizzle! Talazac!”
There was no reply. He felt hands on him, hoisting him up into the two-wheeler, and he was tumbled in headfirst. Then they were speeding back to the wall and into the crystal mountain beyond.
FOURTEEN
“Where is this one going?” A Nilokerus guard stepped into the corridor, halting the suspension bed maneuvered by a second-order physician.
The physician stopped abruptly, turned stiffly toward the guard, and held up a packet with a violet Threl seal. “He’s for the Saecaraz. Jamrog’s initiative. He wants to keep an eye on this one personally.”
The guard stepped close to the floating bed and peered curiously down into the face of the man lying there. “Is he the one that called on Cynetics?”
“No. I hear that one’s to remain with the Supreme Director in Threl High Chambers. This is one of the others.”
“Looks harmless enough.” The guard shrugged and stepped aside, and the physician shoved the body-bearing bed away once more. They had traveled no more than ten paces when the guard turned his head to his shoulder and whispered, “The prisoner is on the way, Subdirector Fertig.”
A click sounded in the folds of the guard’s clothing as the circuit opened. “Acknowledged. Report to Fairweather level in Tanais sector for reassignment.”
“At once.” The shoulder mike clicked off, and the guard spun on his heel and hurried along the deserted terrace toward his new destination, muttering, “This is news! I’ll get a round for this tonight. Maybe two!”
Orion Treet was awake, and his head felt stuffed with oatmeal. A small spot on his upper arm ached, as if he’d been burned with a lighted cigar just below the shoulder. Or branded.
Branded? The thought caused him to sit bolt upright on the suspension bed. He sprang up too quickly, the bed dipped, and Treet rolled onto the floor. Black spots of dizziness pinwheeled before his eyes. Presently the spots faded and, still sprawled on the floor, he looked cautiously at his right arm where he saw only a thin scratch and a tiny red bruise. He rubbed the spot for a moment as he studied his cell.
It was a small, pie-shaped room with a ceiling that curved upward, toward some apex beyond—a section of a dome. The ceiling was translucent and glowed light green, softly tinting the bare walls of the cell. The doorway, narrow, but with strangely rounded posts and a lancet arch, stood open. There was no door, and a further door glimpsed beyond a connecting room was open too. Either the colonists had no use for doors, or they had a more efficient way of sealing rooms.
Treet guessed the latter: a barrier field of some sort.
This inspection done, Treet turned his attention to the rest of the room. He saw a black-and-silver bundle on a shelf which jutted out from the wall. Since it was the only other object in the room besides the suspension bed—and since he was naked and beginning to feel foolish sitting on the floor—Treet decided to investigate.
Pushing himself up slowly—so as not to start the black spots dancing again—he moved toward the shelf, stealing a glance through the open doorway as he went. He was alone; no one appeared in either doorway, nor could he see anyone in the room beyond.
Taking the bundle from the shelf, Treet shook out the folds to reveal a lightweight robe of a material that looked and felt like silk. The robe—short, with a large V-shaped hole for his head— was black with silver diagonal stripes. A second garment fell out of the first—a pair of coarse, baggy black leotards with molded synthetic rubber soles sewn into the feet. There was no undergarment, but, not feeling at all choosy, he pulled on the leotard and drew it over his legs; the high waistband came all the way up to his solar plexus.
Next he slipped the flimsy, long-sleeved robe over his head. The garment reached midcalf, but once the two broad silver bands dangling from his waist were wrapped around and tied at his side, creating a sash, the hemline rose to just above his kneecaps.
The clothes were remarkably comfortable—more so than the singleton he always wore. The fine quality of the robe, and the silky sensation against his skin, made him feel like a Chinese emperor. He smoothed the folds beneath his hands and, with nothing else to do, sat down once again on the edge of the bed to wait, replaying in his mind all that he could remember of the scuffle on the landing field.
He had disembarked and was immediately met by three vehicles carrying colonists. An attempt at communication had been made, at which point he had been attacked. Treet remembered being buffeted around somewhat—a sore thigh and ribs told him he had taken a blow or two—and then dragged toward one of the vehicles. At some point after being hauled aboard, his memory went blank.
Then he had awakened in this cell. He could remember nothing else after that, and only isolated patches from before. He remembered his conversation with Varro and meeting Neviss; he remembered eating a fine meal, but not what he ate; remembered a satchel full of money, now gone; and before that being hauled fro
m a public bath at Houston International at gunpoint. Only snatches—a jigsaw puzzle with lots of pieces missing, islands of clarity surrounded by seas of featureless confusion.
But there should be more, he told himself. What about the others?
Certainly there had been others—he could hardly have come here alone. There had to have been a transport, and someone would have had to fly it.
I did not come alone, he thought. There were others, had to be others. Why can’t I remember them?
The room in which Yarden Talazac found herself was faintly reminiscent of her childhood home. There was no ceiling, but the soft, shifting light, filtering in from high above, sending faint ripples of dappled shadow across smooth white walls, reminded her of the seaside villa of her father. Her room had been adjacent to the inner courtyard and open to the sky. She had always loved the feeling of freedom the room inspired, and at twilight, when the plexidome was raised for the night above the courtyard, stars shone down upon her bed.
But this room was not in her father’s house. Somewhere else then. Where? She could not say. She had the feeling, though, that she had come from very far away to this place. How she had come, and why, she did not know.
At the same time, she felt that she had always been here—in this room, sitting on the bed, watching the shadow shapes drift like clouds over the wall. That could not be, she knew. There must be a life outside this room, but…
Thinking about it made her tired. She yawned and lay back against the pillows she had piled in the middle of the bed. She closed her eyes and gave herself to the cozy warmth of sleep, feeling safe and secure: a child in her father’s home once again.
The moment he opened his eyes. Pizzle reached out to release his safety harness. It was gone. He pulled back his hand and wondered what had made him do that. Even as he tried to think about it, the thought evaporated.
For a moment he had the impression that he would remember something very important, that if he only concentrated hard enough it would come to him. But concentration eluded him; random thoughts drifted in and out of his head, and he forgot why he was concentrating in the first place.
He yawned, slid out of bed, and stretched, pulling his arms over his head and bending at the waist. It felt good to stretch; he’d been sleeping too long.
Pizzle slipped his yos over his head and tightened the sash at his side, blousing up the folds properly so that the hem reached midthigh. He stopped and looked at his hands. Where had he learned to arrange a yos?
Hadn’t he always known? Wasn’t it a thing everyone knew?
For a moment he experienced a strange sense of reversed deja vu—of doing for the first time things he had been doing all his life.
Oh well, it was probably nothing. Nothing at all.
FIFTEEN
Sirin Rohee, Supreme Director of the Threl, stared around the ring at his grim companions. Worry stretched his normally pouty expression into a deep, oppressive frown. Everyone in the darkened, heavily-draped room felt the full weight of that frown; it was like gravity—pulling all attention toward itself.
At last he spoke. His voice warbled slightly, a clue to his advancing age; but his hands were steady as he clasped his ceremonial bhuj. “The threat, though very great, has been averted, Directors. We have managed to isolate the intruders, and amnesiants have been administered.”
“There was no trouble?” Kavan asked, averting his eyes briefly. The Supreme Director waved the bhuj to his left; the polished blade flashed in the light.
“None,” replied Hladik. “They were but a small force; our own Invisibles subdued them easily.”
“Weapons?” Cejka spoke in a raw whisper.
Hladik regarded him frankly from beneath his heavy brows and answered, “We found no weapons.”
“But,” added Rohee quickly, “there is no doubt that the intent of their mission was to discredit our security. Therefore, you will describe weapons of undetermined origin. Our official statement will be that we have, owing to tireless vigilance, thwarted a plot by Fieri spies.”
Tvrdy, the sly, practical Director of Tanais, leaned forward in his seat, cleared his throat, and said, “What of this vehicle of theirs? I understand the spies possessed a spacecraft.”
Saecaraz Subdirector Jamrog answered without waiting for a nod from his superior. “Obviously the vehicle must have been a decoy.”
“Oh?” said Tvrdy. “I had not heard this.” He glanced at Cejka, and then continued. “What would be the use of a decoy?”
“Deception,” said Jamrog. “The Fieri are deviously clever. They hope to make us believe that they have achieved space travel. We know this is impossible.”
“Should not this decoy craft be mentioned in our statement? The people are certain to hear about it.”
“You will make no mention of the decoy craft. It does not exist.”
“Where is it now?” asked Tvrdy. “I would like to have it studied. It may be that it hides some clues to Fieri magic.”
“It has been removed,” Jamrog replied tightly.
“Yes. So I would expect. And where is it being kept? I wish to send Tanais magicians to study it.”
“You will be notified when that becomes possible,” said Jamrog.
“I see. And what prevents me from seeing it now?”
“I say when—” began Jamrog angrily.
Hladik, Director of Nilokerus, raised a hand and cut him off. “You will see the vehicle in due time, Tvrdy. I realize both you and Jamrog will have keen interest in the craft—even though it is but an elaborate toy. However, the Supreme Director asked me to make absolutely certain the machine poses no security threat.”
“Of course.” Tvrdy smiled. “I was merely curious, you understand.” He nodded toward Jamrog. “I am sorry if my request upset you.”
Piipo, the long-faced, taciturn Director of Hyrgo Hage, twisted uncomfortably in his seat and spoke up. “Supreme Director, if I may return to other matters, you said the spies have been isolated. Am I to believe they are being held in the reorientation section?”
“Allow me, Supreme Director,” said Hladik as the Threl leader glanced toward him. “The force was small—only four. Since their presence was certain to be discovered by the Dhogs if they were placed in adjustment cells, I thought it best that they be introduced unobtrusively into suitable Hages. Of course they will remain under close surveillance until the effect of the psilobe is rendered permanent.”
“You don’t think they would pose an even greater threat loose among the populace? They could conceivably make contact with Dhogs who are sure to recognize them.”
“Of course,” replied Hladik equably, “such a thing is possible. But in their present condition they would be in no position to help their comrades.” The Nilokerus leader smiled broadly. “Besides, as I have said, their movements will be monitored very closely. Any attempt to contact the Fieri underground within Empyrion would compromise their organization. We would strike instantly and crush them once and for all.”
Supreme Director Rohee raised the bhuj and rapped the gold-plated staff sharply on the floor. “The session is at an end, Directors. You will assure your Hagemen that we have dealt our treacherous enemies a decisive blow; we are now very close to smashing their network and ridding Empyrion of their hated presence forever.”
With that, supported by Jamrog who held his elbow, he stood slowly, turned, and shuffled from the circular chamber. The seven remaining Threl watched him go in silence.
As the others filed past, led away by their waiting guides, Tvrdy stepped from the procession and walked to the terrace rim. He put his hands on the smooth surface of the breastwork and looked out over the Hage. The undulating arcs of a thousand terrace rims, falling away in sweeping stairsteps on every side, descending to teeming tangles of warrens and cells below, met his gaze.
There was much that had not been said in session about this so-called invasion of spies. What were the spies doing outside the dome? Why were they not simply termin
ated upon capture— standard policy for Fieri agents and Dhogs? Why had their spacecraft been hidden? Why was there no preliminary report from Saecaraz magicians? Which Hages had been selected for hiding the alleged spies?
“You look but do not see,” remarked a withered voice behind him. Tvrdy nodded and turned to meet Cejka.
“I see too much that I do not like. But you are a Rumon; you must see even more than I.” Tvrdy leaned against the terrace rim once again, turning so that a lipreader would not be able to observe their speech. Cejka joined him, and both men gazed out over the man-made hills and valleys of the colony’s interior.
“I see that Jamrog and his puppet Hladik have been busy obscuring the facts. But one thing is clear—there is much they are not telling about these alleged Fieri spies. Therefore, they are afraid.”
“Where are they, do you think?”
“I don’t know, but I will find out. Rumon rumor messengers are already at work, and our agents have been alerted; you can be sure we will find out very soon.”
“And then?”
“And then we will talk. Kavan, you, and I—also Piipo, if he will come.”
“You trust him?”
“Yes. We have had opportunity for much informal discussion of late. He may not join us, but he will not betray us. He can be trusted.”
“What of Dey? Should we try him?”
Cejka groaned. “The Chryse are in bed with the Saecaraz. We have lost Dey, I am afraid. No matter. Hyrgo is more important anyway, and it’s true they have no love for Jamrog. Eee!” Cejka shuddered. “The prospect of Jamrog as Supreme Director … it’s abhorrent… unthinkable!”
Tvrdy nodded absently. “I wonder if it could be true … do you think? Could the intruders really be Travelers?”
Cejka’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Who knows? Stranger things are possible, I suppose. Though I think we will find that the Fieri are perhaps becoming unusually bold—that is more likely.”
“I have heard that one of them invoked the ancient name … Cynetics.” Tvrdy glanced sharply at his friend.
Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra Page 10
