He’d crack a few skulls to demonstrate his displeasure, and soon his organization would be back to normal. It was all this business of Rohee’s death and Jamrog’s funeral spectacle that had made everything lax. A demonstration was needed. Fertig would make a good example. Where was the man? He’d been noticeably scarce since—well, since the Fieri escape. That long ago?
Hladik snorted. Fertig would have some explaining to do. Perhaps it was time to designate a new Subdirector. Yes, that might do. Fertig’s demise would serve as a handsome warning to any Nilokerus tempted to slough their duties or allow zeal to flag.
He arrived at the conditioning chamber and entered. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the tank itself, which had two bodies suspended in it. Strange, thought Hladik, I was aware of only one prisoner. Where had the other come from? What is going on here?
He spun on his heel. “Skank!” he shouted in his best outraged Director’s tone. “Present yourself! Skank!”
His summons was rewarded by a shuffling sound from the adjoining room as the lumpy bulk of Skank came lumbering into view. The man gave Hladik a look of frank disapproval, which the Director ignored as he did the stench of the place. “Where have you been?” Skank opened his mouth to answer, but Hladik threw a hand toward the tank. “Why are there two prisoners in the tank? I come to see one and find two. Under whose order was this done?”
Skank peered at his leader with open contempt, spat on the floor, and said, “Two, did you say?”
“Yes, two! Are you blind as well as stupid? Look!” Hladik whirled around and gestured at the tank and at the single figure floating there. Stunned, he sputtered in protest. “Th-there were two just now. I saw them clearly with my own eyes. Two men in the tank. I saw them.”
Skank spat and shrugged. “There’s but one now.”
The Director clenched his fists and would have struck the insolent Skank, but remembered what he’d come to do. “Yes, there is but one now. I want a report.”
“The prisoner is as you see.”
“His mental status.”
“Heavy alpha and beta activity. This one has stamina, Director. He resists with force.”
“Then increase the stimulus. I want him broken.”
Skank rolled a foul eye at his master. “My orders were to keep him undamaged.”
“I give the orders, Skank. Do as you are told, or I will find someone who will.” Hladik stepped close to the tank and peered at the captive suspended motionless inside. Was there something familiar about his one? Hard to tell—they all looked alike after a while.
He turned away. “Send word as soon as he is ready to receive the theta key.” He fixed Skank with an ominous stare and marched from the stinking chamber, pausing to steal a final glance at the tank. Strange, he thought, I distinctly saw two.
TWENTY
Fertig stole a last look around his kraam. Had he forgotten anything? No, he had checked and checked again. He had all he could take with him in the bundle beneath his yos. It was time to go. Now. Before he was missed, before Hladik sent Invisibles to find him.
The day the Fieri had escaped, Fertig had chosen his course. To save his life he had only one hope: making his way to the Old Section to join the Dhogs—if they would have him. To help persuade the Dhogs that he was a valuable asset, Fertig had spent the last weeks searching for information of likely use to the nonbeings. Now, armed with an assortment of facts—enough, he hoped, to buy himself a place among them—Fertig was ready to depart.
Hladik had not mentioned the Fieri debacle since that day, but Fertig knew the Hage Leader had not forgotten. The Subdirector had time and time again seen Hladik pull out from his formidable memory long lists of past transgressions to indict a victim. Fertig knew Hladik had not forgotten his presence in the room the day he and Jamrog had ordered the Mors Ultima to strike another Director. And he knew it was only a matter of time before his role in the escape of the Fieri was discovered and his death warrant issued.
He had considered joining Tvrdy, but contacting the Tanais Director was too risky. Jamrog now had Invisibles seeded throughout Hage Tanais, and Tvrdy was under closest observation. Fertig strongly doubted he could reach Tvrdy without being recognized and reported the moment he set foot on Tanais soil. Besides, time was running out for Tvrdy too. Jamrog was closing for the kill. Thus, the only path left Fertig led to the Old Section.
Desperate as he was, Fertig found no comfort in the prospect of joining the Dhogs. If even a fraction of the tales were true, life among them was certain to be raw misery. But Fertig feared death more than discomfort—and death was certain if he stayed. Already Jamrog’s instability was manifest for anyone with eyes to see it. Empyrion was spinning into a chaos of blood and destruction. Who would be left alive when the smoke cleared?
The Nilokerus Subdirector walked to the unidor, put his hand on the switchplate, and stared at the open portal as if it were the gate into the netherworld, which in a way it was. He shifted the bundle beneath his yos, took a deep breath, and departed.
The first word back from the men he’d sent to Giloon Bogney put Tvrdy in a better frame of mind than he’d been in for many days. The message had come during the night: contact successful … Dhogs well organized … cooperation complete … ready for supplies … send second contingent … more weapons needed …
Tvrdy read the decoded message once more, wadded the flimsy sheet into a tight ball, swallowed it, and smiled. The men he’d sent to the Old Section had made it. Giloon had lived up to his word. Here was a glimmer of hope at last: a most remote chance, but a chance nonetheless, that Jamrog could be stopped. He was not fooling himself; there was a staggering amount of work to be done before Jamrog could even be challenged, let alone unseated, but now at least there was a place to stand. That’s all Tvrdy needed.
“Is anything wrong, Director?” Danelka, Tvrdy’s industrious Subdirector, watched his leader casually.
“No, nothing.” Tvrdy glanced up quickly. How long had the man been standing there? He cringed from the thought; it was unworthy. That’s what came of suspecting everyone. Danelka was one of Tvrdy’s five most trusted Hagemen, a man of unquestioned loyalty. “I want you to call them now. It is time.”
“Of course. Is that all?”
“For the moment.”
The man left to carry out his errand, and Tvrdy dropped into a chair. He had put off the decision long enough. It had to be today, while he could still control the circumstances of his decision. He would go on his own terms, and not on Jamrog’s. Danelka would become Director, and one of the four underdirectors must be chosen to take Danelka’s place as Subdirector. Over the years Tvrdy had groomed his men carefully; he knew each one and knew there was not a traitor among them. But now one must be raised over the others to a position of utmost sensitivity. The future of Empyrion might well depend on the choice. Which one would it be?
Within minutes, the first of the candidates had arrived. When all were assembled, he joined them, meeting their eager glances with keen appraisal. “You will have guessed, I think, why you are here,” Tvrdy began.
Some of the men nodded; all stood mute and tense. The chance of a lifetime had come. To be advanced to the position of Subdirector meant high Hage stent—almost the highest. The tension was almost more than they could bear. “I won’t waste words,” the Director was saying. Had he already chosen then?
“I am leaving. Danelka will become acting Director. Which one of you will serve him?” The underdirectors looked levelly ahead. No one answered.
“You see how it is,” Tvrdy gently intoned. He stood slowly. “This is one decision I will not make. It might be well for Danelka to choose, but as the one chosen will come under Jamrog’s intense scrutiny …” He looked at them and spread his hands. “You will decide who it is to be.” The underdirectors appeared shocked, so Tvrdy repeated himself. “You will choose among yourselves which it is to be. That way, you will all be satisfied with the choice.”
The foremost of the candidates, a young man named Egrem, spoke up. “How will we choose, Director?”
“That is up to you. Decide however you like, but I must have an answer today. Any other questions?”
The underdirectors made no reply. Several glanced sideways at their companions as Tvrdy turned and left the room, saying, “I will be waiting in my kraam. Bring me your answer.”
The Tanais Director was resting on his suspension bed when the signal sounded from the terminal across the room. He got up and stabbed a lighted tab, allowing the lift to come up from below. He went to greet the new Subdirector and was surprised to find all four tumbling out of the small lift.
“Well?” he asked when they had assembled themselves.
Illim stepped forward. “But if it pleases you, Director, I wish to make an explanation.”
“Yes?”
“We have a condition among us, Director.”
“Which means you require my assent.”
“Yes.”
“What is the condition?”
“We have agreed that the one chosen must forfeit—” The assistant halted, unable to make himself say the rest.
But Tvrdy had already surmised the agreement. “Will forfeit any claim to a possible future Directorship should Danelka and I be killed—is that it?”
Illim nodded.
Tvrdy smiled to himself. Yes, it was an admirable solution. That way the one chosen would not diminish the others’ chances. They could still serve with hope in their hearts, and the chosen one would not have to fear their ambition. It was a solution worthy of the Tanais. Tvrdy made a show of turning the idea over in his mind before answering.
At last he said, “Am I to understand that the one chosen to serve the Hage is the one with the least ambition among you?”
The underdirectors looked abashed at the suggestion. Egrem said, “Send us all away if you think that, Director.”
Tvrdy smiled and allowed his underlings to see his pleasure. “No, it is well done. I was right in trusting you. It was a hard decision. No one knows that better than I.” He paused, then snapped back to business once more. “All right, I agree to the condition. Illim, present yourself.” Illim stepped forward solemnly. “Illim will become Subdirector, but will forfeit his chance at a Director’s kraam in the future. It is done.”
“I will serve the Hage well, Hage Leader.”
“I do not doubt it, Illim,” said Tvrdy. “As for the rest of you, I have given Danelka orders to increase your poak by eighty shares each. Your loyalty is to be rewarded.” The underdirectors could not conceal their happiness at this news. Eighty shares! They’d be almost as rich as magicians.
Tvrdy brought them quickly back to reality. “You will earn your increase, Hagemen. The lines of force are drawn. Already Jamrog plots against the Threl. I believe he will attempt to have each Director removed. If he cannot do it outright by assassination—as he did with Sirin Rohee—he will work among those closest to the Director. Make no mistake—he will try to turn you to his side.”
The underdirectors darted defiance from their glances, but Tvrdy continued. “He will promise you wealth and power in exchange for treachery. He will make it easy for you to accept, impossible for you to refuse. But you must be strong. Do not believe his lies, and do not give in to him.”
“Our only hope of survival is to remain steadfast. Report any contacts to Danelka at once. We must be strong or Jamrog will not be stopped.
“For your own protection,” Tvrdy continued, “you will not know where I have gone, or when. Only Danelka has been briefed. He is to be the only contact between the Hage and myself from now on. He will pass only the information I instruct him to share with you. This also is for your protection.”
The underdirectors had never heard their leader speak this way; certainly he had never addressed them so candidly. They were flattered, gratified by his confidence in them, and left pledging their strength and loyalty to Tvrdy, to the Hage, and to one another.
TWENTY-ONE
Hladik pushed away his hagemate’s hand, but the tickling sensation that had roused him from sleep did not stop. “Enough,” he muttered thickly. “No more tonight. Go to sleep.”
Still the tickling continued. He opened his eyes. It was dark in the sleep chamber, but he sensed someone else in the room. “Who is it?” he said softly. “Who’s there? Bremot?”
He put his hand out and touched the lamp next to the suspension bed. The globe came on, glowing softly. Hladik’s eyes went wide with horror as he saw the bloody pool thickening beneath his hagemate’s body. Her eyes stared emptily upward, a thin red line sliced across her lovely white throat.
There was a movement at the foot of the bed, and a figure emerged from the shadow. “Mrukk!” Hladik moved to get up. “What have you done?”
The assassin moved close, the blade glittering darkly in his hand. “You will approve, Director. I am removing a traitor from our midst.”
“What do you mean?” He threw a frightened glance at his bed partner. “She—”
“Not her, Director … you!” Mrukk’s eyes glinted as they narrowed to evil slits.
Hladik struggled to get up. Only then did he notice the dark stain spreading across his own bedclothes. The tickle that had awakened him had suddenly become a fiery burn. With a strangled cry he threw back the thin sheet and stared in disbelief at the deep cleft running from pubic bone to sternum. “Jam—rog-g …” he gasped, the name gurgling in his throat.
The Nilokerus Director clutched at his stomach, and lurched to his feet; he staggered two steps before his strength gave out, and collapsed at his assassin’s feet. Mrukk’s lips drew back in a sneer as he stooped to wipe his blade in his victim’s hair; he had expected more courage from his former superior. Hladik moaned weakly as his limbs convulsed in death spasms.
“Jamrog, yes. Your benefactor, Director. I’ll tell him you thought to thank him for his last gift.” Mrukk gave the body a shove with his toe. The mass of flesh jiggled and lay still. Replacing the knife in its sheath beneath his black yos, Mrukk stepped over the body of Hladik’s guide and stole from the kraam, silent as the dead he left behind.
The last few days had been a happy blur to Pizzle—his daylight hours filled with pleasant, if exhausting, labor as he worked side-by-side with the Fieri readying the ships that would make the long trip to the Bay of Talking Fish. By night he and Starla met to be together and share the details of their day. Neither mentioned marriage again, much to Pizzle’s relief. Apparently Starla had forgotten that the word ever passed between them—which was exactly what he had hoped would happen.
There was so much to be done before they could set out on the journey. Pizzle had been intrigued by the notion of talking fish, and volunteered immediately when Jaire’s brother, Preben, had told him about it. “Come with us,” Preben invited. “It is an experience never forgotten.”
“Gee, I’d like to,” replied Pizzle. “Could I? You’d really let me?”
“Certainly,” laughed Preben. Pizzle’s eagerness was so childlike. “Anyone may go who cares to. Many hundreds will make the journey. And as I am to command one of the ships, you can travel with me.”
“Great!” shouted Pizzle. “This is fantastic! Wait till Starla hears about this … How soon do we leave? Can I do anything? Do they really talk?”
“We will leave within a month, before the beginning of the next solar period.”
Pizzle counted the days on his fingers. Based on what he was learning about Fieri timekeeping it worked out to—“That’s less than three weeks away.”
“The Preceptor will choose the appropriate day. We must be ready to leave at her signal. And since you ask, you can help me. I want our ship to be among the first. The Preceptor may choose ours to carry her, which would be a great honor.”
So Pizzle had thrown himself into the preparations, helping Preben’s crew gather and stow supplies, scrape and repaint the ship top to bottom, check lifesaving gear, and freshen every one o
f the several dozen sleeping compartments below the wide, flat deck. The days sped by, each full of activity and anticipation.
One evening Pizzle went to meet Starla at their prearranged rendezvous—a secluded hill overlooking a cove on the shore of Prindahl. The sun still lit the twilight sky, though the first stars had emerged to take their places in the cloud-spattered heavens. He arrived early and waited, stretched out on the grassy turf, breathing the night air fresh off the great, dark water soughing gently on the shore below.
This is paradise, thought Pizzle idly. He had never been more happy, more satisfied, more at peace with himself. He wanted nothing else but for life to go on and on and on just the way it was. If only it could last forever. The Fieri actually believed that it would go on forever, that the Infinite Father had made them for eternity.
It was a notion Pizzle had always found quaint and somewhat ridiculous before. Now he saw it as a profound wisdom. This kind of life, this heaven, made sense. For the first time in his life, he had begun to suspect that one lifetime may not be enough.
Then, quite without warning, a swift and poignant sadness rushed over him and he began to weep. Big, salty tears rolled from his eyes.
It would end. His life would end. He would die one day and it would be over, finished, no more. He would leave Starla behind and descend into dissolution and dust. And that would be that. Death at this tender moment seemed bitterly cruel and perverse, an outrage. To take away all this … this happiness, to be cut off so suddenly, so completely and finally was, Pizzle now considered, a monstrous and tragic injustice.
He lay on his back, staring blindly at the sky as the tears slid quietly down his cheeks. Starla found him that way. He heard her approach and sat up quickly, blotting his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What’s wrong, my love?” she asked, settling down beside him.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 13
