Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra

by Stephen Lawhead

  At least he knew that the colony was 2,273 years old, and probably a whole lot older. The key to this mystery lay somewhere in these books, but finding it would take time.

  Resisting the impulse to pull them all out at once, Treet went back to the beginning and gently tugged out the first notebook. The paper fluttered in his shaking hands as he read the first page. It was a personal note from the author, framed in the same steady, precise handwriting:

  TO ALL WHO COME AFTER:

  These books are the work of one man’s life. Treat them with respect. This record of Empyrion has been assembled from many diverse sources, some of which were not completely reliable. It will be hard for anyone of a more enlightened age to understand the repression under which I have labored.

  Where there are errors, know that they could not be avoided. I leave them for you to correct. But know, too, that what you hold in your hands is the truth—as far as can be told. I have told everything in the books.

  Feodr Rumon

  After Arrival 2273

  Treet reread the short note and felt the uncanny sensation that the words had been written to him personally. He wondered how many others had read them. At least one other, judging from the margin notes he’d seen.

  This was a find, all right. The one and only genuine original find of a lifetime. Trouble was, he was the only person in the whole wide universe who knew its significance. Not that certain others wouldn’t be interested—Rohee for one, Chairman Neviss for another.

  The Chairman’s name triggered a chain reaction in his mind. Of course! It all fit. What a pinhead I’ve been, he thought. I should have guessed what was going on long ago. Of course Neviss knew what had happened—or had a Harvard-educated hunch—knew that the time distortion factor had royally screwed up the works. What was it that Neviss had said in their too-brief interview? Treet closed his eyes and remembered the words exactly: “The proposition I have in mind has to do with this colony. I want your help in solving a problem there.”

  So this was the “problem” Neviss had alluded to but never explained: a trifling matter of a few thousand lost years to be accounted for. Nothing to it. Send up a starving historian who’d sell his eldest daughter (if he had one) to the United Arab Emirates for a chance at the most significant historical discovery of the last several centuries and you could rest easy. Orion Tiberias Treet—bless his simple, hoodwinked heart—was on the job. He’d die kicking and screaming bloody murder before he’d let anyone deflect him from the trail once he got the scent.

  And it had worked. Treet cursed the scheming Chairman and his smarmy assistant Varro and all of Cynetics’ vast holdings and chattels. Yet, he admired the beauty of it. Despite himself, his historian’s soul luxuriated in the golden glow of discovery. Although he had a good mind to call down the fates of economic failure upon Neviss and company, he also felt gratitude for being chosen to make the trip.

  “That devious old scoundrel,” murmured Treet, closing the notebook and placing it carefully back on the shelf, “trapped me with honey. He knew all along I wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

  He turned to see Calin watching him closely. “Something is wrong?” she asked.

  He grabbed her, gave her a big, sloppy kiss on the side of the mouth, and roared, “Nothing is right, my fine magician, but nothing is wrong.” He released her and whirled back to the shelves. “Now then, let’s see what other goodies are here, shall we?”

  He scanned the ordered ranks of disks and cartridges, each and every one containing some piece to the Empyrion puzzle. Where to start, he wondered. At the beginning, like a good schoolboy? Or work back from the end, which might be quicker in some respects? Treet sighed. Why rush? He had nothing but time on his hands.

  Starwatch level was nearly deserted as Hladik and his guide moved along the upper terraces and rimwalks. “Stay here and wait for me,” he told the guide as he entered the physicians’ cluster and walked among the beds there. Most were empty, but he wasted no time searching the others—he knew where to find the one he was looking for.

  In a separate chamber two third-order physicians bent over the inert body in the suspension bed. As Hladik appeared, both straightened. “Good evening, Hage Leader,” they said in unison, bowing at the waist. The physician nearest him added, “We were just about to—”

  “Leave us. I wish to see the patient alone.”

  “Of course, Hage Leader.” The physician took his instrument in his hands and nodded to his colleague; both backed from Director Hladik’s presence.

  Hladik approached the bed and peered down at the sleeping man. Although the slack features were pasty and deep blue circles swelled beneath the eyes, on the whole the patient’s color had improved since the last time he’d seen him. Good, he was out of danger. “Kolari,” Hladik whispered, using the postconditioning trigger name, “this is your Director. Do you hear me? Wake up.”

  The eyelids fluttered and opened, revealing dull, listless eyes beneath. “I am glad to see you are feeling better.” He paused and glanced around. “Do you remember your theta key?”

  The head bobbed once, then again. Excellent! The conditioning has succeeded, thought Hladik. “Good. I want to hear it. Repeat the theta key now.”

  Crocker spoke, his voice hollow, wasted. “The Fieri are our enemies. If they try to contact me, I go with them. I remain alert so that I may return and tell you where they hide. If anyone interferes …”

  “Yes?”

  “I kill them.”

  “Very good. Rest now. Close your eyes and sleep. You will forget that I was here. But you will remember your theta key.”

  THIRTY

  Asquith Pizzle blinked his eyes and rolled out of bed. For the third night in a row he had been awakened by a feeling of suffocation. It started as a pressure in his chest which grew so great that his heart thumped wildly against his rib cage until his breathing stopped. In his sleep-sodden consciousness, it felt as though some dark malevolent being straddled him, pressing giant splayed thumbs against his windpipe, tighter and tighter, choking him until he awoke, panting and out of breath.

  The feeling of immense oppression dwindled as Pizzle pulled on his yos, leaving only a quivery sensation through his midsection. Dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling of the bare room, wondering for the nine billionth time in the last three days why he was here.

  The man—Tvrdy, was his name—had helped him. He was sure of that. He could trust Tvrdy, even if he could not trust his own memory. And this was the mystery: where had he come from, why was he here, and where were the others who had come with him?

  Each day he remembered more—as if the thick sheet of glacial ice which had frozen his memory melted a little more, uncovering a few more precious acres of once-hidden terrain.

  He now remembered, imperfectly, faces of others whom he felt certain had come to this place with him. He remembered, too, that he had not always been in this room of Tvrdy’s. He had been with someone else, had done something before coming here. But it was all fuzzy in his mind; he could have imagined it. Certainly most of what he remembered had an ethereal, dreamlike quality.

  But Tvrdy had helped him there too, providing what he called a guide to lead him back along forgotten pathways to retrieve important facts and events. Under Pradim’s gentle prodding, he had made considerable progress, though he still had a long way to go.

  As Pizzle sat on his bed thinking, his hand strayed up to his face. Something was wrong there. What was it? The beard that had begun to straggle over his unshaven chin? No, his ears … or eyes … glasses. The word came to him from out of nowhere, spinning into his consciousness like a windblown leaf.

  I wear glasses, he thought. Or once did. What happened to them? What has happened to me? An inky jet of melancholy gushed up inside him, filling him with phantom grief for all he had lost—or imagined he had lost, for he really did not know precisely what his former life had been like. But the feeling was strong, a tide that swelled and flowed
over and through him, tugging him along. A big tear formed in the corner of each eye. He bent his head.

  When Pradim came in a few moments later, Pizzle had not moved. The guide came quietly around the suspension bed to stand in front of him. “Pizol, our Hageman has returned. He wants you. Come with me now.”

  Pizzle raised his face, wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands, and got up. “Your misery?” asked Tvrdy’s guide.

  “Yes, but I’m all right. I remembered that I used to wear glasses. It seemed important.”

  “Glasses?” Pradim looked at him strangely. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  They went through two rooms to the small inner chamber, Tvrdy’s quiet room. The Tanais Director was waiting for them when they came in. “Thank you, Pradim. Go now and do as I instructed you. Bring me back word straightaway when everything is ready. Traudl is waiting for the signal. And tell Amuneet to stay close by in case I need anything. She can bring in breakfast as soon as it’s ready. I’m hungry, and there will be no more sleep tonight.”

  Pradim vanished and Pizzle entered the room, sitting opposite Tvrdy on a low, cushioned chair. He had come to enjoy these interviews with Tvrdy; they helped ease his mind.

  “I’m glad you are awake, Pizol. I would have had to disturb you otherwise.” Tvrdy spoke gently and easily, but Pizzle saw fatigue in the down-turned lines of the Director’s face and the slump of his shoulders.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Neither could I.” Tvrdy studied him a long moment, weighing him, gauging him for what would come next. Pizzle felt his interest quicken, and desperately hoped that he would measure up to whatever Tvrdy had to say so Tvrdy would tell him what was on his mind. Pizzle waited, feeling his nerves tighten with anticipation.

  Finally Tvrdy spoke. “I have two things to tell you, Hageman Pizol.” His voice was quiet, but his tone flat and hard, betraying an undercurrent of tension. “The first is this: there is trouble coming which I cannot prevent. You will be involved. You must get ready for it; I will help however I can, but it is up to you to equip yourself.” He paused and when Pizzle did not say anything, nodded and continued. “The second thing I wanted to tell you is that I think it is time you knew about your friends.”

  “You know about the others?” Pizzle sat up. “I remember them—their faces. I knew I did not come alone.”

  “No, you did not. There were three others with you. We have found them, and so far they are safe—although they have been given psilobe too, and remember no more than you. They have been hidden within Hage, but we have seen them.”

  “Hidden? I—I don’t understand. Why can’t I see them?”

  Tvrdy looked at him sadly, drew a hand over his face, and lay back against the cushions of his chair. “It is not easy to explain, but I will put it as simply as I can.” He paused, his lips pouting in thought. At last he said, “There are some among us who thirst for power. Very soon they will force a confrontation which my friends and I cannot ignore.”

  “The trouble you spoke of just now?”

  “That’s right. If they win the struggle, there will be a Purge. In such event, the Threl Directorate would be overthrown, any who opposed them would be crushed, the Hages would be decimated. No one would be safe.”

  “And my friends are being held by these people?” Pizzle slumped in his chair. “You said you knew where they were.”

  “They have been seen, but not contacted. You are the only one we have been able to secure. And now that you have disappeared, the others will be much more difficult to reach. One is with the Chryse—a woman …”

  “Long black hair, dark eyes. Slender with long limbs?”

  Tvrdy smiled and nodded. “Good, you remember her. The other two are men—one, we recently discovered, is under care of the physicians.”

  “Is he all right? What happened to him?”

  “We don’t know. He was injured in some way, perhaps when you were brought in.”

  “And the other?”

  “For some reason he was taken by the Supreme Director and has been given a kraam of his own in Threl High Chambers and freedom to move around. He is watched, of course, but we think Threl Leader is using him for some private purpose. We don’t know what it is. It is possible he may have joined them.”

  “Light hair or dark?” Pizzle tried to think which of the two faces he remembered would have joined the opposition.

  “He is a big man. Dark hair, heavy brows, and square head.”

  Pizzle nodded. Yes, that described one of the faces. “Treet!” The name spurted out and with it a dizzying string of associated images, as if another wedge had been removed in the logjam of memory, releasing its jumbled store. Pizzle sat stunned as the torrent of recollection tumbled through his mind.

  “You remember something now,” replied Tvrdy, gazing at Pizzle closely. He sensed what was happening behind the man’s dazed eyes, and wondered if this was the time he had been waiting for— time to ask the question he most desperately wanted an answer to. He hesitated, then leaned forward, touched Pizzle on the arm with his hand, and asked, “Tell me, Hageman, are you a Fieri?”

  Yarden followed the troupe along a lowlying rim wall through still-dark streets. Far above, the faceted planes of the dome pearled gray as new sunlight struck them. It was early morning, and they were on their way to what Bela had called an Astral Service.

  “You’ll see,” he had said when she asked what it was. “Here, take this.” He held out a pale, thin wafer. When she had hesitated, he added, “For your memory. I’ve explained that this will help you. You’ve taken them before, remember?”

  She had taken the wafer and held it in her palm. Its center was discolored by a light purplish stain. She lifted it to her mouth.

  “Bela, we should be going. The sanctuary will be filled before we get there, and we’ll have to sit in the back,” Dera had complained. She fixed Yarden with an icy stare and tugged Bela away.

  “We’re going now,” he had said, sweeping Dera to him with his arm. “Come on, everyone! We will be late for the Service,” he called as the troupe straggled together and led the way out of his crowded kraam.

  Yarden had hurried after them. As much as she feared the Service, she did not want to be seen lagging behind. However, as soon as they reached the plaza outside the kraam block, she let herself fall to the rear of the party. As the troupe proceeded along walkways planted with ragged hedgerows, Yarden pulled her hand from the folds of her yos and, certain that no one was watching, dropped the wafer Bela had given her into the bushes. She then quickened her pace and overtook the last of the troupe.

  At first Yarden had taken the wafers Bela gave her, believing that they were helping her remember. But the small white disks with the faint spot of purple in the center had the reverse effect— they increased the inertia of remembering and made her more forgetful, her memory more remote and ill-defined. This she noticed the third time she tasted the bland crust on her tongue.

  Thereafter she had avoided taking them, successfully hiding the fact from Bela, whose insistence had made her suspicious. As a result, her memory improved dramatically. She now knew herself to be different from those around her, knew that she did not belong to the Chryse, knew that theirs was a world foreign to her.

  She also nursed an airy belief that she was separated from others of her own kind who could help her—a belief which, thanks to her intuitive distrust of Bela’s drug-laced wafers, was hardening into a fair certainty.

  Be patient, she told herself, it will come to you. Use your mind; fight the laziness. Think! Concentrate on the past. Try to remember. It will come back.

  That was how she spent her every waking moment, fending off the lethargy which had been cast like a pall over her mental functions, peeling back that deadening numbness to free whatever lay trapped beneath. She was careful not to mention to anyone what she was doing, lest Bela find out. Careful, too, to keep up the dazed and perpetually confused demeanor which had fir
st characterized her.

  After palming the wafer for the second time—they were given to her at two-day intervals—she knew that Bela was not her friend and that he meant to stop her from remembering. Why this should be, she couldn’t say. However, since the encounter with the hideous Hage Priest she felt it as strongly as she felt the importance of restoring as much as she possibly could of her memory. And with each passing day the potency of the drug diminished, unlocking more of her memory.

  Yarden kept her eyes open as she followed the Chryse band out of deep Hage toward the river she had been told ran through the center of Empyrion. In an hour or so they came to a wide, tree-lined plaza. Across the square, through the thin, gnarled, leaf-shy trees, the Kyan flowed dull behind its low-walled bank.

  In the center of the plaza stood a great squatty black pyramid with ramps leading up from all sides. People streamed across the square, moved up the ramps, and disappeared inside the pyramid through pillared entrances. At the sight of the pyramid, the troupe surged forward and hastened across the white, stone-flagged square to the pyramid. Yarden unwillingly joined the crush of people forming at the foot of the incline and moved slowly up.

  As the low arch closed over her head, Yarden experienced a sudden and overwhelming sensation of suffocation. She staggered, gasped, and clutched the sleeve of the Chryse nearest her, another young woman name Mina. The player took Yarden’s arm and guided her into the sanctuary.

  Inside the Astral Temple, the sensation of oppression swelled. It was as though a heavy object lay on her chest and constricted her breathing passages. Try as she might, she could not draw sufficient air into her lungs. She grew dizzy and her vision narrowed, becoming a pinched, black-bounded, unfocused field. Shapes swirled around her: indistinct and chaotic movement accompanied with bursts of raking sound. The voices around her were magnified into terrible shrieks, piercing her ears and penetrating her skull like hot knives.