by Chris Walley
“W-will they use nuclear weapons? Or kinetic or beam weapons?”
“They will have all of them, but they will only use them if they have to—if, say, there is determined resistance. Nezhuala doesn’t seem to like destroying worlds, buildings, or infrastructure. He likes to take over things in good working order. Energy spent in rebuilding is a waste of energy that might be used in conquest.” Suddenly a strange woeful expression seemed to darken Azeras’s face and he looked away out to sea. Merral had a sudden sense of a man who carried terrible burdens.
“S-so how will he plan to take this world?” Vero asked, but it was Merral who answered him.
“Krallen,” he said, and as he said it, the word seemed somehow sharp and misshapen.
“Aha,” said Azeras, swinging around, his sad expression replaced by a look of intense interest. “The commander has met the Krallen. I’m amazed you survived. So you will know that Krallen are like Betafor but far, far nastier?”
There were nods and Azeras continued. “A full-suppression complex might have around a hundred thousand Krallen. There were rumors of a new, larger class of suppression complexes, worse than the Y-class, so there could be more. The battlefield versions are a bit heavier than the ship pack types you met. There would be a variety of landers to deploy them plus supports.”
“Ooof,” muttered Vero as if he had been punched.
“I had no idea,” Merral said quietly. The vision the envoy had shown him seemed to have taken a terrible step closer to reality. “None at all.”
“Are there any humans?” Perena asked, her low voice barely audible over the mewing calls of the gulls.
“Normally, very few. Perhaps twenty. And one or two Allenix to watch and listen.”
“Why so few men?”
“Humans, Captain, are hard work. They tire, they need food, they grumble, they scheme. And they prefer to stay alive, rather than face death.”
“So is that why they use Krallen?” Perena’s face showed consternation.
Azeras scratched a scar on his cheek. “One reason. But another reason is this: Krallen do no real damage to any infrastructure. You’d send what—a thousand Krallen packs?—into somewhere like your Isterrane and they’d slash every living being to shreds in a few days. But there’d be no damage. Just a few doors torn down, a few windows smashed and a lot of blood. You’d just hose the place down and it would be fine.” He paused. “And there’s another reason: Krallen terrify people. People can stand the idea of being bombed or vaporized, but humans have a deep-seated fear of being hunted.”
Merral felt chilled, as if an invisible cloud of horror had blocked the sun.
“S-so an entire ship full—fuller than we can imagine—of Krallen may be on its way,” Vero said, turning his troubled face away toward the ocean.
“And there will be other things too.”
“Go on.”
“Slitherwings. And maybe even a baziliarch.” Azeras’s expression was somber.
“Tell us more.”
“No. We don’t know much about them and what we do, we don’t talk about. But let’s trust to the Fates that they haven’t sent one.”
Vero grunted. “We have a better hope than Fate, Sarudar.”
“If there’s a baziliarch around, you will need one.”
“So what can we do?” Merral asked.
Azeras shook his head. “I have told you the problem. The answers—if there are any—are for another day.”
There was a long heavy silence in which no one seemed to want to say anything. Suddenly it came to Merral that it was bizarrely incongruous to talk about such dark things amid palm trees, a beach, and a blazing sun. But he ended his reflection; there were more questions to be asked if they were to try and recover the Rahllman’s Star.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was wondering when—”
Merral stopped, aware of a noise behind him and catching others’ eyes swinging toward the bleached buildings. He turned round to see Lloyd’s large form pounding down the path toward them, gesturing at the diary he held aloft.
Merral rose, a cold sensation of menace sliding over him. He ran toward Lloyd.
They met halfway. “Is it . . . ?” he asked as he grabbed the diary.
Lloyd gave him the nod that meant everything.
With a pounding heart, Merral listened to the message, then jogged back to the table. “It’s Corradon,” he said, his voice trembling. “It’s what we have been expecting. A non-Assembly ship has been detected beyond the outer debris belt. It’s heading toward Farholme. On current speeds, they will be in orbit in days.”
He stopped, almost overwhelmed by all that the news signified. “They’re here.”
19
Barely twenty minutes after receiving the message, Merral, Vero, and Lloyd raced northward over the blue expanse of Hassanet’s Sea in a short-haul flier piloted by Perena.
Vero stared out of the cabin window, his face stern.
“How do you feel?” Merral asked.
Vero turned to him. “In the last hour, my hopes have been raised high and then dashed. Earth was briefly in sight. But we cannot access the Rahllman’s Star now. If we had only found Azeras a week earlier!”
“I know.”
“But, my friend, we must plan. I will deal with Betafor and Azeras and keep them hidden. It is going to be hard for us to hide what we know from Corradon and the rest. We have a new skill to learn: secrecy.”
“Yes. I’m not looking forward to that. It is not my strength.”
“No. That is why being kept in the dark about other matters may make your life easier.”
Merral, Vero, Perena, and Lloyd were rotorcrafted from the airport straight to the landing pad on the roof of the Planetary Administration building. Merral had expected to go straight to the war room, but instead was ushered into Corradon’s office along with Vero and Perena. Both Corradon and Clemant were there. Merral was relieved to find that the representative, although pale, seemed oddly positive.
“I’m glad to have you all here,” Corradon said. “In the last hour, we have had a message from the ship.” He gestured them to chairs that faced a wallscreen. “Things may not be as bad as—” He stopped abruptly. “No, I’ll let you make up your minds. I want to watch it again anyway.”
He pressed a switch and an image appeared on the screen of a man and a woman dressed in white in front of a flag bearing the red coiling symbol that Merral remembered seeing on the flanks of Betafor.
The Final Emblem. Merral reminded himself not to reveal more than he could be expected to know.
As the image wavered and then stabilized, they could see that the man had a kind, even humorous face with soft gray-brown eyes, thin, wispy white hair, and a neat, short gray beard. The woman had a pale, rather delicate face with high cheekbones and long, braided, pale-gold hair and seemed to radiate a wise amiability.
There was something attractive about her and Merral was tempted to gaze at her. He wondered how old they were. There was something oddly timeless about them.
“Non-Assembly humans,” Corradon said to no one in particular, his voice full of wonder.
There was a crackling noise and then the man’s voice could be heard. “Peace and greetings to you.” His tone was mellow and reassuring; the words a confident Communal. “This is the Dove of Dawn and I am Ambassador Hazderzal.”
Merral realized that if there was uncertainty about the man’s age, there could be none at all about his manner. There was a look of harmlessness, even benevolence, about the ambassador that seemed to reach out from the grainy image and put one at ease.
“And I am Ambassador Tinternli,” said the woman, her smile revealing teeth of perfect whiteness and symmetry. Her voice was light and sweet and somehow Merral felt confident that she was a capable singer.
“Be reassured: we pose no threat to you,” the man said. “On the contrary, we wish to help you. We are fellow human beings from a small body of worlds called the Dominion, and have broken a
n ancient policy of silence and separation to come to your aid.”
Are they evil? To his surprise Merral did not have a sense of being in the presence of evil. Is that because they are too far away or because they aren’t evil? Or are they so cunning that they can hide their nature?
As the woman spoke next, Merral noticed her soft brown eyes and her smooth unlined skin. Again the manner was reassuring. “Nearly a year ago in your time, one of our space vessels was stolen by insurgents and flown toward your world. We had decided to leave the matter for the Assembly to deal with, but when we became aware of the destruction of your Gate, we realized that we had to intervene. We intend to enter Farholme orbit in seven days. Please send us details of your situation.” She smiled again. “I repeat: we pose no threat. We mean you well and wish to assist you.”
“We are listening for your response,” the man concluded and the image faded.
Corradon nodded. “It has been repeated on the hour ever since. Do you want to see it again?”
“Later,” Merral said.
“Then let me show you the images of the ship from a surveillance satellite.”
On the screen appeared a blurred image of a pale white needle in a sea of darkness.
“Size and mass?” Perena asked, her eyes scanning the screen.
“It’s small—just over a hundred meters long and no more than a few thousand tons. Consistent with it being a diplomatic vessel.”
Merral stared at the image, realizing that it bore no resemblance to the full-suppression complex that he feared.
“It really doesn’t look hostile, does it?” Corradon said, and Merral heard a hunger for reassurance in his words.
Merral chose his reply with care. “Not so far.”
Corradon gestured to a table across the room. “Now we can discuss the complex issues involved.”
The discussions lasted well over an hour and Merral found them very trying. He had to be constantly wary not to let slip what he knew and also found himself wishing that he could discuss things privately with Vero and Perena. The nature and tone of the ambassadors’ message seemed to have buoyed up Corradon’s spirits so that he seemed reluctant to consider any view that suggested there might still be a threat.
Clemant, who seemed to watch and listen to the debate with a concerned intensity, said little, but was clearly less wholeheartedly positive.
Various measures were agreed upon. It was decided that Corradon should immediately send a message that welcomed the Dominion ship and expressed a desire to talk with the ambassadors, but which also mentioned that the intruder vessel had been destroyed and that there was no current threat.
With regard to preparations on Farholme, Merral’s suggestion that they put the entire FDF on alert was approved. There was also agreement that while there was no evidence so far that justified putting into operation the defenses around the population centers, nevertheless the implementation teams ought to be placed on standby.
There was much discussion about whether the news of the ship should be made public. Here Clemant did have something to say, arguing that it was better to go public before rumors leaked out. This was accepted and Corradon agreed to give another broadcast to the world. Merral suggested that the representative should also warn people that the Library and the Admin-Net might be shut down without warning at any time. This was approved without enthusiasm.
Finally, Corradon looked around. “We need to designate a contact team to meet these ambassadors. I would suggest all the representatives, so that’s five of us, and Dr. Clemant.”
The advisor bowed.
“Now, Commander, I assume that you would want to be in the group?”
Merral, who felt inclined to refuse, looked around for guidance and found a barely visible look of encouragement on Vero’s face.
“As you wish, sir,” Merral said. “But I have other duties, as I’m sure you are aware. I may not be able to be totally committed.”
“We can manage I’m sure. Captain Lewitz?”
Perena shook her head. “I am happy to be consulted, but do not wish to be on the team. I may have flying duties.”
“Sentinel? I would imagine that you would wish to be part of the team.”
“Thank you, sir, but I decline the offer,” Vero replied. “I have responsibilities with the irregulars that will occupy me. And, if you will excuse me for saying it, I think the fate of Farholme should be decided by those from Farholme.”
Clemant nodded, looking satisfied.
“I understand that. Seven then so far. I think—” Corradon looked at his advisor for reassurance—“we will ask Chaplain-in-Chief Delastro to join us. That will make eight of us. Any other comments?” After a short silence, he added, “Well, we all have work to do. Meeting dismissed.”
Outside the room, Perena made her apologies and left. As he watched her slight figure vanish down the corridor, Merral wondered how much he would see of either her or her sister in the near future. He had an odd certainty that isolation for him loomed and did not relish the prospect.
Vero took Merral’s arm and steered him around a corner. “I must disappear,” he said in a low voice.
“But I need your support and your advice. What we saw—doesn’t fit. Not with what we expected. I’m puzzled. . . . I—”
“Not here. We can’t discuss it.” Vero’s eyes looked carefully around. “Someone is lying. But, my friend, you must be alone and play your part. It’s all for the best.”
“But I need your help.”
Vero touched his shoulder. “And I yours. But we must go our own ways for some time. From now on, I think that the road will get steeper and harder—for all of us.”
That afternoon Merral received an urgent summons to Corradon’s office. The representative was unhappy; there were problems with Delastro. The prebendant had already made up his mind that the Dominion was evil and had refused to join the contact team. They discussed the matter and possible approaches and it was agreed that Merral should talk with Delastro.
Merral, wondering what to say, found Delastro at his desk in his plainly furnished room.
The prebendant gestured for him to sit in a high-backed chair in front of the desk.
“I gather, Prebendant,” Merral said, “that you have made up your mind.”
“Yes. I think this contact team is a waste of time—an utter waste. You, in particular, would be far better employed in organizing us for war.”
“I think that we should be neutral until such time as we know they are enemies.”
“Neutrality? At such a time?” A flash of anger lit Delastro’s green eyes. “They are evil. It’s a trick, Commander.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do and I suspect you do.”
He’s right. Merral tried to hide his feelings under the prebendant’s scrutiny. “I don’t. I may have my suspicions and my fears, but I don’t know for sure.”
“And your connections with the angelic realm? This being you contact? Hasn’t he warned you of this ship?”
“No. He warned me—us—of approaching war. We can’t yet assume that these people are the enemy.”
“I believe it would be safest to treat them as the enemy.”
“I disagree, Prebendant. And there is a delicate matter here. You are chaplain-in-chief. How do you propose to handle this matter with the soldiers?”
“I intend to do my duty and preach that this is a trap.”
“But that would jeopardize any negotiations. It might precipitate a war.”
“Then so be it. Let the war come. Let the purging of the worlds occur.”
Merral took a breath, feeling uncomfortably aware of the gap in age between them. “Prebendant, Representative Corradon and I agree that this is not to be allowed. You must be scrupulously neutral.”
“And if I am not?”
“I will have to find a replacement for you.”
A succession of expressions crossed Delastro’s thin face: a flash of anger, a look a
round the room, ending slowly in a conciliatory smile. “As you wish then. I will be neutral.”
Pleased at his victory, but faintly disappointed that Delastro had not resigned, Merral returned to Corradon’s office. The representative, who was peering intently at a plant on a shelf, looked up.
After Merral explained what happened, he said, “As I expected. Well, we will put old Jenat on the contact team.”
“Is he . . . well . . . appropriate?” Merral asked, thinking of the frail man who had been overwhelmed by the events at the memorial service.
“Hmm. He is the president of the congregations. He has the rank.” Corradon bent down to the plant. “Now, this Achimenes is not very happy. I was wondering if it needed some more potassium. Do you have any suggestions?”
Merral made the briefest of answers and, deeply troubled at the representative’s inability to focus on the crisis, returned to his office.
Merral found himself almost frantically busy for the rest of the day, but at five he closed his office door, and summoned Lloyd to drive to Brenito’s house.
As they drove up the drive, Merral scanned the garden, hoping that he might see Jorgio’s curved figure at work, but there was no sign of him. The guard at the gate said Jorgio was inside and that yes, he had been very disturbed, but that he was now better.
Leaving Lloyd at the door, Merral went inside. He soon found Jorgio seated in Brenito’s old rocking chair on the veranda overlooking the sea.
“How are you?” Merral asked, pulling over a bench. Pushing a pad of paper to one side, he sat down.
“I’ve had a bad few days, Mr. Merral. You remember those footsteps as I’ve been having in my dreams? Well, they were just getting louder and louder. Why yesterday now, I could hear them as if they were right in my head. Patter, patter, patter. Not just in dreams either. While I was working in the garden—sowing some delphiniums on some of the bare bits, I was—I could hear them—an army of them. And during my eating. Even during my praying: that was the worst bit.”
