The guards yanked him closer. Jamrog lowered the bhuj and pressed its point into Fertig’s chest. “That’s close enough.” Jamrog smiled viciously. “Welcome home, Subdirector. We have missed you.”
Fertig threw a dark look at Diltz. Jamrog saw it and said, “I see you remember Diltz. Yes, Director Diltz. What did you expect? Hladik departed life so quickly, he left a void in the Hage hierarchy. The Hage had to have a Director, and you, unfortunately, were not to be found.”
Jamrog spoke so calmly, so reasonably, Fertig began to hope that he would succeed after all, that the value of the information he held would buy his life. “I am sorry, Supreme Director. I was frightened. Confused.”
“Yes, and you forgot who your friends were. Didn’t you, Fertig?”
“I did forget, Supreme Director. It’s true.”
“But now you have remembered. Is that so?”
“That’s so, Supreme Director.” He could feel sweat dampening the palms of his hands.
Jamrog turned to Diltz. “There, you see, Diltz? A simple misunderstanding. Nothing so sinister as you suggest. He was frightened and ran away. And now he has come to his senses and returned. Just so.”
Fertig’s heart leapt in his breast. This was better than he could have imagined. Jamrog must be in a supremely generous mood. Perhaps the rebels had already been subdued. The thought gave him a momentary pang. But after all, the situation was hopeless; it was every man for himself.
“Perhaps he is still frightened, Supreme Director,” suggested Diltz in his sepulchral voice. “Frightened enough to withhold valuable information.”
“You’re not frightened anymore, are you, Fertig?” The prisoner shook his head. “There, you see, Diltz? He’s not frightened anymore. And he knows what would happen to him if he withheld information that could help us crush this untidy rebellion.”
Jamrog stepped down from the riser and came to stand before Fertig. “You would have to go to interrogation. Unpleasant things can happen to a man during interrogation, I’m told. The Mors Ultima are very persuasive, but tend to be somewhat overdramatic.”
“They are most effective,” said Diltz.
“Bah! Listen to him, Fertig. I believe he wants you taken to interrogation. You don’t want to go there, do you? You’d prefer to talk to us here and now. Isn’t that right?”
As Jamrog was speaking, Mrukk stepped from behind the riser and came to stand facing him a little to the left. At the sight of the Mors Ultima commander, Fertig blanched. “Answer me, Subdirector. You’d like to tell us what you know.”
“Y-yes, Supreme Director, I’ll talk to you now. I’ll tell you everything I know …” He hesitated, his mouth dry, sweat starting to seep through his clothes. “Everything. But my information is worth something.” He cringed as he said it. “I’ve already demonstrated its value—I told your commander where the rebels were hiding.”
Jamrog smiled and put his face close. “Of course. A very valuable piece of information, too. And you shall be repaid. Now, tell us where the tunnel exit is.”
Fertig licked his lips. “In Bolbe. It’s near the material stores in deep Hage, I think.”
“You’ll have to be more precise than that,” said Diltz, “if you expect us to believe you.”
“The scouts did not say precisely.”
“Are there connecting tunnels?” asked Mrukk, cold eyes glinting in the torchlight.
“No—none that I know of.”
“He doesn’t seem to know very much,” remarked Diltz.
“I told you where you could find the rebels.”
Jamrog dismissed the matter with a jerk of his hand. “We have already discussed that. Besides, we would have found them eventually. Isn’t that true, Mrukk?”
“We were very close to finding them when Fertig was captured.”
Fertig smiled weakly. “I—you did not capture me … I came to you—brought you the information.”
“Is Tvrdy still in command?” asked Mrukk.
“Yes,” replied Fertig warily.
“What of the Fieri?” asked Jamrog.
“He is there as well. He was to lead the Dhogs to Fierra. They made a bargain.”
“Does he command?” Mrukk moved closer.
“No.” Fertig gave a quick shake of his head. “He tends the wounded mostly.”
“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Jamrog. “Did you hear that, Diltz? The Fieri tends the wounded.”
“Remarkable.”
“Why does he do this?” asked Mrukk. “Do the other leaders not trust him?”
“They trust him. But he prefers to help the wounded. The others wanted to leave them behind, but he wouldn’t allow it.”
The three inquisitors were silent.
Fertig glanced around him. “That’s all I know. I’ve told you everything.”
“It isn’t much,” replied Diltz.
“Nevertheless,” said Jamrog, “I agreed to pay him what he deserves.” He raised the bhuj, and Fertig saw that the ornate ceremonial blade had been honed to razor sharpness.
“What are you doing?” demanded Fertig. “I—told you … my information … I gave you …”
Jamrog nodded, and Mrukk swiftly stepped behind the prisoner and jerked Fertig’s arms back, pinning them behind his shoulders. “No! Please no!” he pleaded. “Send me away. Send me to reorientation.”
The two Mors Ultima seized Fertig’s yos and tore it from his shoulders, baring his chest. Jamrog placed the blade against the soft flesh over Fertig’s heart.
“No! No!” he screamed. “Don’t kill me!”
The bhuj bit into the skin, and blood oozed out around the blade. “I’ll go back to the rebels. I’ll spy for you. I’ll find the tunnel exit. I’ll work for you. Please, let me go.”
“You’re a traitor, Fertig. We could never trust a traitor.”
“Don’t kill me!” The bhuj sliced deeper. “No!” Fertig struggled feebly, but was held fast in Mrukk’s iron grip. Blood trickled freely down Fertig’s stomach. His features twisted in agony.
Jamrog laughed and forced the thick blade deeper. Fertig writhed. His head arched back, and he gasped. Jamrog saw the head go back and put his weight behind the blade, driving it in and up. The bhuj ripped upward, and Fertig went limp. Mrukk stepped away, and the body slumped to the floor.
The Supreme Director gazed merrily down at his handiwork. He put his foot on Fertig’s chest and grasped the long shaft, gave it a twist, and withdrew it. “Did you hear, Mrukk? The tunnel connects with Bolbe; begin searching the material stores.”
“You should have no difficulty,” added Diltz. “We have done your work for you.”
Mrukk inclined his head in a stiff bow, turned on his heel, and walked out. Neither Jamrog nor Diltz saw the thin, mirthless smile.
SEVENTY
The balon sat waiting on the beach where it had touched down several hours earlier, drifting down out of the clear azure sky as lightly as a bubble. After conferring with the Preceptor, the passengers would begin boarding and the balon would continue on its journey. Yarden took advantage of the wait to have a last walk on the beach. The talking fish were nowhere to be seen; they were birthing their young and would not come near shore for a few days. Yarden wished that Glee and Spinner were there now to comfort her.
She had not thought leaving would be this hard. True, she still felt the urgency of her mission—if anything, that was more acute—but she was beginning to have qualms about going, not so much for herself, but for the Fieri involved.
I’ve talked everyone into this endeavor, she thought—what happens now? What do we do exactly? What happens if we fail? We have no weapons, no protection. What if someone gets killed—what if we all get killed?
Failure had not occurred to her before. Now it seemed a very likely outcome.
We’re not prepared. We’re lambs headed for slaughter, she thought. And yet, we have to go. I have to go. Staying here and doing nothing would be worse.
She saw a wad of brown cloth
lying at the water’s edge just ahead; she stopped when she came to it and stooped to pick it up. It was a shirt, and nearby lay the trousers: Crocker’s shirt and trousers.
She stood and looked off toward the seacliffs to the west. Anthon found her standing there. “He was getting better,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “He was safe here. Why would he leave?”
Anthon followed her gaze. “He made his decision, Yarden. And we have made ours. Come, it’s time to go.”
They turned and walked back to camp. Ianni and Gerdes were waiting for her when she returned. “I guess this is good-bye,” Yarden said as she joined them. “I’d planned it differently.”
“Not good-bye,” said Ianni. “We want to give you a farewell blessing.”
“Trust in the Infinite and let Him guide your steps,” said Gerdes, raising her hand over Yarden’s head. “Go in peace and in peace return.”
“Thank you,” said Yarden, reaching for their hands. She drew them both into a hug. “Thank you both very much.”
“The others are boarding,” said Anthon, and they turned and walked across the sand to the balon, passing among the Fieri gathered there to see them off. Yarden craned her neck as she moved through the crowd. “Looking for someone?” Anthon asked, pausing to glance over his shoulder at her.
“No, I guess not. I was only hoping …” She scanned the crowd, searching for Pizzle. Up to this moment she had believed Pizzle would come around. But it appeared that he, too, had made his decision. He was nowhere to be seen.
Without another word they continued on to the balon. Upon reaching the boarding ramp, Yarden turned to steal a final look back at the Fieri who had gathered to see the balon on its way. She searched the somber faces of the crowd. There would be no warm send-off, no sung farewell. They were going to Dome, and that was a matter of extreme gravity.
A chime sounded from within the balon. “They are ready to lift off as soon as we are aboard,” said Anthon, moving up the ramp.
Yarden took the guide rope and started up the ramp. She reached the top, took a last backward glance, sighed, and went inside. There was a whirr of machinery as the ramp began to rise.
“Hey! Wait a second!” A high reedy voice rang out behind her. “Wait for me!”
Yarden whirled around. “Lower the ramp! We have another passenger.”
As soon as the gangway touched the sand once more, Pizzle came bounding up and into the balon. “Well, what are you grinning at?” he demanded. “You’re not the only one who knows how to make a magnanimous gesture.”
Yarden threw her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. “What’s that for?”
“I’m proud of you, Pizzle. Thanks—”
“Whoa there, sister. You don’t think I’d let you take this luxury cruise without me? Us Earthlings stick together, right?”
“Right.”
The Invisibles pounded the rebels’ meager earthwork defenses through the night, using three of the improvised tanks. The ditch was hastily dug and shallow, its breastwork made of dirt and rubble heaped around the mouth of the tunnel. The rebels stayed low and fired back when they could, risking as little as possible.
But the Invisibles’ superior firepower made it impossible for the Tanais and Rumon marksmen to retaliate effectively, and each strike punished the rebels severely. The hours crawled by, and the rebel return fire became more random and spotty as the enemy’s strength hammered the defenders down.
By morning it became clear that the Invisibles intended to grind the defense down to nothing and then rush the tunnel. Four enemy battalions were massed on the bumpy, broken plain across which the rebels had fled a day earlier.
Tvrdy appeared briefly to reconnoiter the enemy’s position, gave a few brief instructions to the men, and then came back to the tunnel. Cejka met him and said, “How much time?”
“A few hours. They believe us to be trapped. They’ll wait until they’re reasonably certain of victory before moving in for the kill.” Tvrdy rubbed his eyes with fingertips. “For now, they wait.”
“We’d better begin moving into Bolbe.” Cejka did not look at his friend, but gazed past him into the thin yellowish light slanting into the tunnel mouth.
Tvrdy nodded.
“I’ll give the order if you prefer. You should get some rest while you can.”
“No, Cejka. I’m all right. I’ll give the order.” Tvrdy moved off down the tunnel. Cejka watched him go, and then went to speak with his men.
Treet came up as Tvrdy and Kopetch were talking. The occasional thunder from the tunnel entrance swamped their words as it rumbled along the ribbed walls. They turned to regard Treet as he approached, both appearing haggard and drawn. Neither had slept for over twenty-four hours. “I hear we’re visiting Bolbe,” Treet said.
“I’ve given the order.”
“What happens then?”
Kopetch answered. “The tunnel will be destroyed so we cannot be followed. By the time they come searching for us, we will be hidden in deep Hage.”
“Will the Bolbe agree to hide us?”
“They have no choice. They will do what we say.”
Treet faced Tvrdy. “Not like that. We can’t do it like that. If we just come in and start pushing people around, giving orders, and taking over, we’re no better than those Mors Ultima thugs out there.” He waved in the direction of the tunnel entrance.
Tvrdy nodded absently. “He’s right, Kopetch. Not that way. What do you suggest?” he asked Treet.
“Well, I don’t know if this means anything or not. But Bogney told me the Dhogs were leaving. I thought he meant he still wanted me to take them to Fierra when we got out of here. And then I got to thinking about something Ernina said when I woke up after my little escapade on the front line.”
“Yes?”
“Well, just after I woke up, I met her in the tunnel. I asked her if she needed any help, and she said some Dhog women had come and they were helping.”
“Dhog women had come? That’s what she said?”
“Her exact words: ‘Some of the Dhog women have come. They’re ignorant, but they do what they’re told.’ I figured she meant the same ones that had brought the liquor the night before, so I didn’t think about it again until Bogney confronted me.” He peered apologetically at Tvrdy and finished by saying, “I haven’t seen Bogney or any of the other Dhogs for hours.”
“Another exit!” said Kopetch, his eyes alight with the discovery. “The Dhogs know about it.”
“Why didn’t they tell us?”
Treet shrugged. “They’re unpredictable. Maybe they’re trying to get even with us for refusing to take them to Fierra.”
“I’ll find out if anyone has seen Bogney,” said Kopetch. He made to dash off.
“That can wait. First send me all the men we can spare. Get them lanterns. Hurry! We may not have much time.”
Mrukk stood beside a table set up in the center of a deserted plaza deep in Bolbe Hage. Squads of Mors Ultima searched among the long ranks of the material stores—the huge storage bins of highly prized Bolbe hagecloth—searching for the tunnel exit. Every few minutes an Invisible appeared, conferred with his commander, and then disappeared again. Mrukk would then move to the table and consult the map spread out there. He would make a mark on the map and return to his place to wait.
He had just finished marking off one entire section of the map when another of his lieutenants approached quickly, offered the Mors Ultima salute, and said, “Commander, perhaps you would like to come inspect what we have found.”
“Where is it?” Mrukk stepped to the map and pointed. “Show me.”
The Invisible placed a finger on a place already marked off. “I was returning to move the squad to a new quadrant, and I noticed a go-down in the main hoarding. It is not visible from the forward approach. I went in and found a grate. Air moves through the grate. I put my ear to the opening and heard weapons discharge—indistinct, but audible. Very far away.”
Mrukk slo
wly raised his head from the map, gray eyes narrowed. “Enjoy the fleeting moments of freedom that remain to you, Tvrdy,” he murmured to himself. His hand came up and made a fist. “Soon I will have you in my grasp.”
SEVENTY-ONE
Treet had never felt more useless in his life. After intense, brain-numbing sessions of contemplation, he could not come up with a single idea that offered even a glimmer of hope. He ransacked his mental files, recalling every detail of every historical battle he had ever studied, dredging up every stray military fact he had ever learned.
Nothing he could come up with suggested even the remote hint of a solution to their dilemma, and he was faced with the heartbreaking conclusion that his mission had failed and that he was absolutely powerless to change the situation: the Invisibles had found the tunnel’s exit and now waited to attack. It was over but for the shooting.
Curiously, he did not mind for himself. Although his failure meant death for him just as surely as for his friends, he had, upon re-entering Dome—weeks? months? years … how long ago?—considered himself abandoned to his task, an instrument in the hand of whatever power moved him. Apparently, he had proven a poor instrument, or that power had other plans.
If anything could save them now, it was up to the Infinite. Treet had done all he could with the cards that had been dealt him, and he had no regrets—except that he would not be able to save the Fieri from the impending slaughter. The gentle, loving Fieri, so good, so pure, so vulnerable before evil’s destructive power.
What did it matter if he were caught and crushed in the teeth of the doomsday machine he hoped to stop? The whole idea had been to save the Fieri from a second holocaust by interposing himself between the gears. He had accepted that it might end badly for him. But he had hoped that some good might be accomplished by his presence—or if not, that some gain might be secured by his death.
Now it appeared that his death would count for nothing. This realization—growing stronger with each passing minute—filled his mouth with the taste of ashes.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 43
