Yarden had spent the night thinking, praying, searching for answers inside herself. There was so much to think about, to sort out, to find answers for. The familiar posture of meditation comforted her, made her feel as if she was in control once more—although, as she well knew, her life was out of control, careening for a crash.
So she sat out on the beach under the alien stars, examining the pattern of her life in the hope of finding the clues to unravel the mystery of what had gone wrong.
Before coming on this journey, she was happy, her life in Fierra full; she’d had definite plans and the sense of a future bright with promise. Somewhere along the way, however, that changed. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact place or time, but she felt the effects acutely. Things had just generally fallen apart—apparently without any particular turning-point or major catastrophe. One day she was happily sketching away, developing her burgeoning artistic skills; the next day she was stumbling through ashes.
She lost sight of the bright future; her happiness leaked away like a rare gas through the sides of a porous container. As the weeks of the journey went by, Yarden felt her grip on her life slipping, and it had slipped so far that she now no longer knew which way to turn, where to go, what to do.
That was bad enough. But worse, she could not shake the feeling that her life had become inextricably bound up with the person of Orion Treet.
It was a mystery to her how a human being could, in his absence, dominate life more completely than he ever had with his presence. Even the talking fish seemed to be talking about him—or, to be a little more accurate, talking about the same things he was talking about, which was disturbing enough in itself.
Everywhere she turned: Treet. And again: Treet.
Did she love him?
It was more than that, of course. Her anxiety and confusion were not merely the result of an inability to make up her mind whether she loved the lout or not. The roots of her dilemma went deeper. Far deeper.
As she sat there, hour upon hour, the sound of the wind-driven rollers droning in her ears, she patiently sifted the tangled thoughts and feelings that had brought her to this brink. And she began to feel as if Pizzle’s remark last evening might have hit closer to the mark than she at first suspected.
She had sought out Pizzle to tell him about her experience with the fishes earlier in the day—about the warning. She found him walking along the strand at sunset, arm in arm with Starla. They walked together for a while—awkward in each other’s company, Yarden feeling her intrusion with every step—until Starla excused herself and returned to camp.
After Pizzle got over being miffed at Yarden for butting in, they had a good talk. They walked along the beach, and as the lowering sun touched the water and turned it to quicksilver, Pizzle told her about his experience with the talking fish. “It was kinda weird,” he said. “At first I didn’t get anything from them—just a sort of lift, you know? Just being in the water with them is a blast. They’re beautiful animals—a lot like those pilot whales back on Earth. Anyway, after a while I started to get something; I could tell the fish was trying to tell me something.”
“Anything in particular?” asked Yarden.
Pizzle lifted his shoulders slightly. “Beats me. All I got was a warm feeling and … how should I say this?—a feeling of real peace and contentment. They seem to be happy creatures all right, no doubt about that.”
Yarden told him what she discovered about how to talk to the fish and then, out of the blue, Pizzle asked her what was bugging her.
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
“You never want to talk to me unless something’s bugging you. We’re not the closest of buddies, you know. Besides, you’ve been chewing your lip like it’s beef jerky. I figure something must be worrying you.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she’d told him. “Honestly, I don’t. I can’t seem to get in sync—everything’s off kilter somehow. I don’t know what it is …
“I feel drawn and chased at the same time,” she concluded.
“Then stop running,” he’d said.
Stop running.
How? She wasn’t even aware that she was running.
“The Seeker won’t rest until all men know Him,” Pizzle had said. “That’s what Anthon tells me.”
Now, as she sat watching night loosen its hold on the land, those words came back: the Seeker won’t rest…
Fine, but didn’t I welcome the chance to learn about You? she demanded of the Infinite. Didn’t I do my best to learn, to understand? What else is there? What do You want from me? What more could You possibly want?
Stop running.
Am I running? What am I running from?
Surrender.
What an old-fashioned word: surrender. Giving up, giving in, giving yourself to another. Relinquishing control.
Yarden bristled at the notion. Ah, there was the rub. I feel drawn and chased at the same time, she thought. Drawn by a presence she did not want to give in to—so she ran. And she was pursued.
Now that same probing presence drew near once more. The Infinite … the Seeker. She could run, push the presence aside, and run. Or she could simply sit there, wait—whatever would happen, let it happen.
Something inside her did not want to let it happen. There was a knotty lump of defiance within her, born of equal parts fear and self-will. She’d gotten where she was in life by feeding this defiance. Would I have survived without it? Would I have gotten anywhere by giving in?
Look where it’s got you, Yarden. Look at you. You’re falling apart. You’re sitting out on a damp, drafty beach all night mumbling to yourself. You don’t know what you want or where to go. You’re lost. You’ve lost control, because this is something that can’t be controlled by you.
Your sympathic abilities are the most important thing in your life, yet they have never brought you a moment’s happiness. Ever wonder why? Why? Weren’t they just another way to control things around you?
Control, Yarden. That’s what this is about. What do you fear most? Losing control. But tell me, who is in control now?
FIFTY-SEVEN
Tell me, who is in control?
Yarden heard herself asking the question. It was her voice, the voice of her conscience, and yet it wasn’t.
I am in control! she answered, and instantly felt shame wash over her in waves.
You see? Your heart knows better. Yarden, surrender.
Again, the old-fashioned word. Surrender.
What will I get if I surrender to You? she demanded.
Something you don’t have now: peace.
Peace. Yes, that would be worth having. To shed the weight of her imperfectly borne burdens and walk away, rest, find sanctuary. But could she trust the Seeker, this Infinite so intent on winning her? Could she trust the Seeker not to crush her, not to leech away her personality and make her a drab, unthinking zombie?
Yarden, the voice chided, wake up and look around. What do you see? Are My people unthinking zombies? Are they crushed by their devotion to Me?
I am the Infinite, Yarden. I have taken infinite pains to make you who you are. Why would I now destroy what I have made? To prove a point that doesn’t need proving?
You run because you fear losing yourself, losing control. Yet I tell you that you are already lost, and that the control you thought you had was just an illusion. You are just now discovering this because you have hidden the truth so well for so long. But you see the truth now, and it scares you.
Control is very important to you. But can you now see that striving after it has given you more pain than pleasure all your life? Your desire for control has thwarted you most often when you were closest to giving in to better things.
This is why you could not love Orion Treet. He had the audacity to suggest that you love him as he was. But you demanded that love should be on your terms or not at all. You gave him an ultimatum that he rejected; so you rejected him. He was a threat to you because you co
uld not control him.
Was? Is he no longer a threat? she wondered.
We are talking about you, Yarden, not Treet. It is you I want now, at this moment. The choice is yours.
What choice do I have? Her inner voice was shrill, near breaking.
You can always remain as you are.
How can I? Yarden fired back. You have given me a taste of what it’s like and now demand I choose. I’m not ready. I need more time.
Listen to yourself, Yarden. A taste of what it’s like … First you say you fear I’ll crush you, then you admit you’ve had a taste and want more. Yes, you tasted and found it good. Why do you hesitate? Do you think you will learn more by waiting, that the decision will become more clear? I tell you no. No. You have been given everything you need to decide. You have even been given the taste you asked for.
That I asked for? When did I ever ask for it?
Think for a moment. Who was it that pleaded to become an artist?
Artist? What’s my becoming an artist have to do with this?
You yearn for truth, and burn to create beauty. Then why do you resist the source of all truth and beauty, the One who has given you your heart’s desire?
There was no answer to that.
Come to Me, Yarden. Give Me the gift of yourself, and I will give you a gift far greater than you can imagine. Yarden, trust Me and believe.
All eternity vibrated in that moment. Yarden imagined that time had stopped and would remain stopped until she answered. The stars, the sea, the wind, the blood coursing through her veins—everything would wait, frozen in that instant, while she decided.
Yes, I’ll trust You, she thought. Yes!
She expected something then. A sign of divine approval, a rush of emotion—a response of some kind. But there was only the sound of waves on sand, the breeze blowing gently, the first rays of sunlight tinting the horizon, and the sound of her own heart beating in her ears.
It is done, she thought. It’s over. The running is over.
There was relief in the thought. Yarden slumped, allowing her muscles to move now; she brought her hands to her neck and rubbed gently. She rose, coming out of her trance position like a flower unfolding itself slowly.
For a moment she stood looking out across the dawn-lit water, molten green in the faint morning light—seeing it for the first time, although she’d stared at it all through the night without noticing it at all—then yawned and stretched, feeling tired and a little lumber-headed from lack of sleep. But there was something else, too—a warm place deep down inside, small but spreading outward; she was at peace within herself.
Smiling to herself, she turned and started back along the water’s edge toward the Fieri camp. She had not gone more than a few steps when she saw, far off on the strand, approaching her from the direction of the line of cliffs opposite, a figure—no, two: a man and the dark, fluid shape of a wevicat walking beside him. The ghostly figures emerged out of night’s quickly fading gloom.
Strange. Who would be awake at this time of the morning for a stroll? There were no wevicats in camp. Who could it be?
Yarden continued walking, and the figures drew nearer. The man appeared naked, except for a loin pouch, and carried a long staff. The cat loped easily along, stopping now and then to pounce on a wave or roll in the surf, playing in the water.
Closer now, there was something familiar about the figure. Something she recognized, but could not place. Her pulse beat faster. What? Who was it? She quickened her pace.
Closer.
No! Oh, no! It can’t be.
She froze in midstride, her hands flying to her face. No! Dear God, no!
But it was.
Crocker!
The Invisibles, satisfied that the Dhogs had been exterminated, now began disengaging. The tanks backed away slowly as the men on foot fell in behind, weapons at the ready, wary.
They’re getting away! Black rage bubbled up like scalding pitch inside Treet as he watched the enemy retreating without so much as a single singed uniform.
Futile tears stung his eyes. It was over. The Invisibles had won. Now they would scour the Old Section, searching out all the hiding places, executing the survivors by twos, by tens, by hundreds. And nothing, nothing would stop them.
Even as these hopeless thoughts filled his mind, Treet felt the inner presence stir. Once again he felt the uncanny assurance, the strange peace that had no objective source. The despair thickening around him dissipated. The fear and frustration melted away.
He looked out on the battlefield through hanging streamers of smoke. The first of the tanks had reached the narrow entrance to the field and was turning to move into the Old Section. But as the death-dealing machine swung around, it appeared to raise slowly off the ground on a puff of gray smoke.
The levitating tank then proceeded to fly to pieces as the explosion ripped its undercarriage to slivers, scattering jagged chunks of metal in a lethal rain. The roar reached Treet a split second later as Invisibles, blown backward by the blast, tumbled loose-jointed through the fire-drenched air. Others nearby were cut to ribbons by flying shrapnel.
The two middle tanks halted at once, but the tank at the rear of the procession ground ahead, faltered, and tried to reverse. Too late. The second explosion took off its front half in a shearing sheet of red flame which billowed out of its ports. The Invisibles crouched behind the tank dropped dead to the ground, felled by the heat wave of the explosion.
Before the two center tanks could back away from the scene, however, rebels appeared from out of nowhere. A shout went up across the battlefield, and Tvrdy’s squad swooped down upon the two stalled vehicles. The Invisibles, pinched between the burning wrecks of two tanks, scattered to the mound of debris behind them, where they were mowed down before they knew what had happened.
Cejka was simply not there one moment, and very much there the next—along with a squad brandishing flame-sprouting weapons.
The Invisibles wilted before the onslaughts. The tanks made feeble efforts to turn the battle once again, but the attackers were too close and the clumsy vehicles were easily outmaneuvered.
The battle was over in a moment. Treet stared at the carnage, feeling numb and empty. The ferocity of the fight, the concentrated violence had deadened his senses, even as the booming shock of the explosions had stunned his eardrums.
It is over. I should feel relieved, happy, he told himself. We won.
But there was no joy in the victory. It had cost too much. Treet climbed from his bunker and began picking his way down to the battlefield to join Tvrdy and the others. He was halfway across the field when he saw men flying into the rectangle from the direction of the duct. Kopetch, Piipo, and their men reached the place where Tvrdy, Cejka, Fertig, and Bogney, who had somehow managed to come through the battle unscathed, waited amidst the wreckage. As Treet came up, he heard Kopetch saying breathlessly, “… too many … couldn’t hold them …”
“The duct?” asked Tvrdy. He gave Treet a frown of reproach, but didn’t say anything. His mind was on other matters.
“Still open,” replied Piipo. “Couldn’t seal it. We tried …”
Tvrdy cursed and began shouting orders. But before anyone could move, they heard again the menacing grumble of a heavy machine approaching from the direction of the duct.
“We can’t stay here,” said Tvrdy. “Too risky. We’ll have to make them chase us and try to take them on the run.” He shouted an order and they all started off, but not before the Dhogs finished separating a few of the dead Invisibles from their weapons.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Yarden stared in disbelief at the man who had once been Crocker.
The former pilot leaned on his spear, gazing at Yarden with an odd expression, innocent and wary at the same time. The great black wevicat sat on its haunches, licking sand from a huge paw, regarding the woman with keen disinterest.
Her hands fluttered as she reached out toward him. “Crocker?”
The man did n
ot acknowledge the name, but merely gazed back with a vacant, animal look in his eyes.
She took a step toward him. The cat’s head snapped up; its lips curled back. She hesitated. “Crocker,” she said, trying to control her voice, “it’s me, Yarden. Remember me? Yarden … your friend.”
He raised his hand and began scratching his stomach.
Tears misted Yarden’s eyes. “Oh, Crocker … what’s happened to you? What …?” Just then the implications of what she was seeing detonated in Yarden’s cerebral cortex, sending shock waves through her central nervous system. Her knees went spongy, and the horizon tilted wildly.
“Oh, no … Crocker—tell me what happened. Where’s Treet? Where’s Calin? Crocker? What happened? Can you talk?” Ignoring the cat’s low growl, she stepped up to the man and put her hand to his face. Tears streaming from her eyes, she said, “Crocker, can you hear me? Can you speak? Oh, please, say something.”
The man stared dumbly at her. She bowed her head, and the tears fell into the wet sand.
They stood that way for some time before Yarden drew a sleeve across her eyes, sniffed, and said, “Come on, I’m taking you back to camp. I’m going to get you some help.” She put her hand on his arm. He did not resist and allowed her to lead him away. The cat watched them depart and then moved off along the strand.
Jaire awoke from a disturbed sleep. She glanced around her room as if she might find the source of her disquiet in its shadowed corners. She rose and went to the curtain, then drew it aside to stand gazing out over the dark water of Prindahl.
The dream was still fresh: black, malformed shapes boiling in the seething darkness; in the center, standing in a shaft of white light, pinioned there, stood Orion Treet, his hands upraised in an attitude of prayer or supplication … or defeat. And then, with a terrible ripping sound, the light went out and Treet was swallowed by the roiling darkness.
That was all. But the image carried with it an emotional charge, a feeling that persisted even though the dream had ended: futility, hovering doom, despair.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 35
