by Chris Walley
He paused as if expecting a response, but receiving none, continued. “Colonel Larraine has suggested that we press charges of mutiny. Prebendant Delastro wants you to be examined on issues to do with invoking spiritual powers.” There was a cold smile. “Do you need me to say that both sorts of investigation could be very unpleasant? You might have to choose between the firing squad or the bonfire.” There was another humorless grimace. “Anyway I have overruled them.”
Clemant paused, again evidently seeking a reaction.
“Thank you,” Merral replied, his voice sounding flat. The envoy’s command was to endure.
Clemant seemed disappointed. “It is tempting to try you and Thuron.” There was a flicker of anger in his eyes. “Instead, as a kindness, I am sending you to Camp Kunagat to recuperate. Do you know of it?”
“The conference center? Only by name.”
“There are lakes. The woods are lovely, they say. You will be well looked after. I have never stayed there.” He shook his head. “Never found the time. Anyway, Camp Kunagat it is, if you promise not to escape or communicate with the outside world. As I have said, there are alternatives.” There was a meaningful pause. “Do you promise?”
“Not to escape or communicate? Yes.” Endure.
“Good. You do need a break. Sentinel Verofaza and Sergeant . . .” Clemant paused, trying to remember the name. “Sergeant Enomoto will join you as soon as they are located. And of course, ex-Colonel Thuron.”
“Can I ask how long I am to stay there?”
Clemant shrugged. “As long as it takes. We have decisions to make and we don’t need distractions.”
“What sort of decisions? Anything to do with the Langerstrand hostages?”
There was a look of bafflement. “The hostages? Not at all. They are a minor issue now. No, we have the data from the Dove on the Dominion and its aims. Professor Habbentz and the others are looking at it all. It is raising considerable alarm.”
“In what way?” I need to know this.
Clemant looked up. “The Dominion is making a fleet ready—a vast fleet. I can barely believe the figures we are recovering from the Dove. And they have made a structure, a colossal construction. The Blade of Night they call it. We do not fully understand it. But we fear it.” He looked at his neatly trimmed fingernails for a moment. “The issue is no longer Farholme, Forester. It’s the entire Assembly. Speed and action are of the essence. And we must do what is best for the Assembly.”
He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “I must do it.” Suddenly, he rose to his feet. “Forester, I am coming to believe that the Most High has made it my destiny to save the Assembly. I must not fail.”
Clemant walked to the door in a way that reminded Merral of a man in a dream. “Enjoy Camp Kunagat,” he said in a distant voice. The door closed behind him.
In his improvised command center at Langerstrand, Lezaroth raged to and fro in fury. The defeat at Ynysmant had been stunning, humiliating, and utterly unexpected. One minute, it had all been better than he could have hoped: D’Avanos had been neatly trapped, the baziliarch had reappeared, and the Krallen had taken most of the town. The next, the signals had failed, all Krallen order had vanished, and a chaotic rout was under way.
Why the attack had been so disastrous was unclear. The devastation had clearly been so complete that there had been no one to report back what had happened. Lezaroth was certain of one thing: D’Avanos had played a part. In the name of Zahlman-Hoth he called down a solemn curse on the man.
Yet as well as raging, Lezaroth also analyzed his situation. The campaign to take Farholme was now a dismal and costly failure. A Z-class full-suppression complex, an army of Krallen, men, and a high-ranking extra-physical being had all been lost. Yet these defeats were not, he knew, the worst aspects of this affair. The fact that the Farholmers had seized the Dove of Dawn was infinitely worse. With it they would soon fly to the Assembly, bearing news and technology of infinite worth.
Gradually, Lezaroth realized that while there was no obvious way of stopping or destroying the Dove of Dawn, he might be able to do what was almost certainly as valuable. The lord-emperor had to be told what he had learned—that there was a great adversary, and his name was D’Avanos, that there were lethal but fixable flaws in the Krallen armor, that the Assembly fought hard, and that even the most powerful of the extra-physical beings could be destroyed. And if he could get back to Khalamaja before the fleet was launched and pass on this news, then Lezaroth knew there would be some gain from what was otherwise an unremitting list of disasters. If he could blame everything on Hanax he might even emerge with credit. His unease about the man was well-known.
Then, his rage cooling, Lezaroth forced himself to survey his options. He still had several thousand Krallen within the compound, a dozen soldiers, Benek-Hal the pilot, and some flight crew. As far as he knew, the existence of the Nanmaxat’s Comet, hidden in the Nether-Realms near Farholme, was unknown to the Farholme authorities. Nevertheless there would be records of it on board the Dove and sooner or later those who were ransacking it would realize that the Comet existed. So he had days at most to act. A small but immediate consolation was that although the Farholme forces were surrounding the Langerstrand base they seemed reluctant to engage him. This, he presumed, was because of the hostages he held. Deriving some comfort from that, Lezaroth allowed himself the luxury of sleep.
On Khalamaja, in the great hall of Kal-na-Tanamuz, Lord-Emperor Nezhuala walked between the great totems and their shadows. He was tired and sweat ran down his back. The pain in his head was worse than usual. He was vaguely aware it was midday, although here where the sunlight never came, that made little difference.
The previous day he had made a visit to the far end of the Blade of Night, the lowest levels of the Nether-Realms, where sometimes the writhing coils of the great serpent could be glimpsed. It had shaken him to the core. There had been uproar down there, a seething storm of rage and fear. It had taken all his mastery of the powers to ensure that he was not consumed by the frenzy of the beings that thrashed around there. It had been no easy matter either to find out what had caused the tumult. But eventually he had pieced together the appalling fact that the Lord Nar-Barratri had been destroyed under circumstances so shameful that no one would tell him what they were.
Even now, as he listened to the whispering voices that filled the great hall, the lord-emperor could still hear shock and horror—the same reaction he had heard in the deepest Nether-Realms.
“We thought we were immune,” the voices wimpered, “but the great Lord Nar-Barratri has been destroyed. Will we be next?”
On his emergence from the Blade, it had taken hours to come to terms with the terrible implications of the baziliarch’s loss. The entire Farholme enterprise was, he now realized, a failure. He was certain that he was unlikely to see the Triumph of Sarata, Fleet-Commander Lezaroth, Captain Hanax—such promise!—or his ambassadors again.
I have been defeated! The thought had come to Nezhuala like a smack in the face. But it had brought with it an even grimmer prospect. With such a defeat, vital information might have fallen into enemy hands. The entire venture against the Assembly depended totally on surprise and overwhelming force. And now it seemed that the surprise might be lost.
And so Nezhuala had paced to and fro in the great hall all night. In the early morning, at the hour when the shadows walked freely about, he made his decision. He had summoned his chief commanders for a noon meeting.
Now noon had passed. Between the totems a line of uniformed men stood at the far end of the hall, looking around in a nervous way. They are nervous about being nervous. The idea amused him. But they can wait. After all I am the lord-emperor.
He walked toward them through the lines of statues, meditating. Did I make enough sacrifices or the right kind? Maybe the problem is the priesthood itself. Do I really need the priests? Perhaps they annoy the powers they ought to appease. Perhaps I should be the sole priest. Am I not the one who
descends to the depths? Am I not the one who has built the Blade? Am I not the one who aims to unite the realms and free the powers? Aren’t I the man in whom the One is perfectly revealed?
At the end of the hall Nezhuala stood silently as his commanders bowed before him.
He looked at the men. All twenty-four I have summoned are present. I have no need to kill anyone.
“Men,” he said. “Thank you for your devotion. I have an announcement: I have set a departure date for the fleet.
He could see the looks of anticipation. They are hoping I will give them at least twelve weeks.
“The first vessels will sail six weeks from now.”
There was a silence in which he watched every face. No one says anything. No one shows any emotion, but I can see in their eyes they don’t like what I said.
“I want all ships to have departed ten weeks from now. The fleet will surface first at the world the Assembly call Bannermene.”
They are surprised. “We will pass by the world called Farholme. It is no longer . . .” He paused. “No longer a priority.”
He could see them watching each other. As ever no one dared do anything that was out of line. There were small, cautious nods.
Nezhuala raised a gloved hand high. “That is all. You will soon bear the Final Emblem to Earth itself.”
Someone began the cry. “Lord, it is our life’s purpose to serve you!” Instantly, nervously, everyone else took up the cry.
“Start the preparations. You are dismissed.”
They left swiftly, leaving the lord-emperor of the Dominion alone in the hall amid the shadows.
There he tilted his head and listened again to the high whisperings and the deep murmurings. As he did, he heard the excitement in the voices and heard, again and again, one word repeated.
“Earth!”
Three days after the disaster at Ynysmant, Lezaroth was in a much better mood. There were several reasons for this. One was that he had remained at Langerstrand untroubled by any Farholme forces. All that had happened was that a high-powered rifle had shot holes in the viewing ports of the shuttle. Lezaroth was unimpressed. Such damage was common in combat and there were sealant pads aboard that could fix the matter in minutes.
Another reason was more complex. Lezaroth soon realized that he was hearing little of the accursed name of D’Avanos. A check of the pathetically few media stations revealed only the official statement that Merral D’Avanos was “recuperating from stress and minor battle injuries.” Lezaroth had found this intriguing and even incredible. Even an ill D’Avanos would have moved against Langerstrand or appeared on the media. What was going on?
Alerted by this and intrigued by the curious military paralysis—who was in control of the FDF?—Lezaroth had consulted the intelligence-gathering facilities he had at Langerstrand. What he learned had raised his mood even more.
It had become apparent that what was going on in Farholme was, almost unbelievably, something instantly recognizable to anyone with any knowledge of the history of the Freeborn. It was a power struggle. One party was wrestling for unrestrained power while another fought to resist them. What he was seeing was just the latest outworking of the ancient principle that while division may be brought by defeat, it can be guaranteed when there is a victory with spoils.
Lezaroth knew that in such struggles there came a moment sooner or later when no one was in control. And that, he decided, would be the moment when he could fix the glass and take off with the hostages and a small crew. Once in space he would summon the Nanmaxat’s Comet, put the hostages on board, and leave.
So Lezaroth listened and waited for the right moment.
Chairman Ethan Malunal sat under the shade of a pine tree in a small Jerusalem garden surrounded by high walls of pale stone. He breathed in the warm scented afternoon air slowly, forcing himself to relax. You need to unwind, Ethan. Pace yourself. It’s the only way you will last the distance.
From time to time his glance fell on the heavy folder lying next to him. As he sat there he listened carefully, hearing beyond the walls the muted noises of the city: schoolchildren yelling as they ran home, household chatter from a balcony, someone’s music from an open window, the faint rumble of the subway. He considered the temperature. As so often happened in early September, there was the first hint that the force of the summer heat was fading. Autumn was on its way.
There was a click. A door in the wall opened and a dark-skinned woman entered.
Ethan rose stiffly from the bench and embraced her. “Eliza,” he said. “Always good to see you.”
“Eeth! It’s always good to see you too. It’s been a long time since we met privately.” She looked around with an air of appreciation. “Nice place to meet.”
“I spend enough time in the office. And this is just round the corner. I like to come here to sit and think when I’m in town. The trees give shade in summer. Please sit down.” He nodded to the door. “You saw the guard?”
“Yes.” Eliza brushed pine needles off a seat and lowered herself carefully down.
“They like it when I come here. It is secure.” Ethan heard the tang of irritation in his voice. “‘Is it secure?’ That’s all the guards ask. . . . This wretched new security.”
“We’re jumpy, Eeth. You can feel it. No one knows what we face. But it is bewildering.”
“It’s more than that; it’s ominous. In four months, war has gone from being ancient history to being a near inevitability. The twentieth defense vessel will be launched tomorrow. Yesterday I signed for thirty long-range protection ships with weapons that hadn’t even been invented last spring.”
She shook her head. “An extraordinary time. . . . My boys have just enlisted.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry and proud.”
“How are you, Eliza? In these days of trial, we mustn’t forget common courtesies.”
Eliza flashed white teeth. “No.” She paused. “I’m kept by grace.”
“And how are the sentinels?”
“Ah. The sentinels, like everyone else right now are in . . . well . . . turbulence.”
“So I heard.”
“But how are you, Eeth? You are the man bearing the weight of the world.”
“That’s certainly what it feels like. I suppose . . .” He hesitated. “No. I’m okay. Well, as okay as a man my age can be in a job like this at a time like this. But Eliza, it’s pretty tough.” Ethan’s fingers knotted together. “All these new pressure groups want to see me. And I’m expected to be so many things: the master of every fact, the arbiter of every crisis, the chairman of every debate. Above all, I’m expected to hold things together when everything is flying apart. Yes, that’s it. Not so much bearing the weight of the world as keeping it together.”
As Eliza nodded, he read sympathy in her eyes.
“Have you seen Andreas lately? I invited him as well.” Why am I so worried that he will not turn up?
“No. I gather he has been busy.”
“You have followed the disputes?”
“The Custodians of the Faith call them debates, Eeth.” Any amusement in Eliza’s voice was edged with sorrow. “But yes, and if it wasn’t that similar issues have arisen among the sentinels, I would barely believe them possible. So many debates about so little that is truly relevant. So little light, so much heat. They are spending so much time arguing about the crisis that they are failing to respond to it.”
“That’s part of the evil, Eliza, you know that. The enemy of the Assembly wants division. And he’s getting it. Everyone seems to be walking in opposite directions now.”
The door opened and Andreas walked in. He looked flustered and sweaty. “Ethan, Eliza. Sorry for the delay. I just left an ongoing discussion that was getting quite animated.”
Ethan sensed a slight distancing in his tone. Our old easy friendship has gone. Will it return? The thought saddened him.
Andreas sat down, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat off h
is face. “I had to hurry. Can’t stop long. It’s just a fleeting visit. I must get back in case it gets too heated. Have I missed anything?”
“No. I was merely moaning.”
“With justification. These pressure groups—how are you handling them?”
Ethan gave a heavy sigh. “Where did they come from? Suddenly everyone in the Assembly seems to be part of a pressure group. Gate manufacturers, the educationalists, the colonists, and a hundred more. And they all want to see me. They are all polite, all insistent, and they all take up time.”
“And they are all getting shriller,” Andreas observed.
“You noticed, eh? When they began, they merely made suggestions; now they are making requests.”
“It will soon be demands.” Andreas’s green eyes seemed hard. “Ethan, I have seen the trends and I think . . .” He broke off. “No, that can wait. Now tell me: what do you have for us that is new?”
“I was really just hoping to have a chat with you both about how you see things. It’s over four months since the Assembly went on a war footing. But I have some information on the intruder worlds.”
“Aha.” Eliza nodded. “I heard rumors that they had been found. We were . . . well . . . relieved.”
You don’t need to explain why. No one needed the confirmation that this whole scare has a real basis more than the sentinels who started it.
Andreas put his handkerchief away. “I had heard too. But tell us the facts.”
Ethan picked up the folder. They seem to get thicker. “The final report has defense implications, so it’s being kept quiet. The deep space observation satellite at Bannermene has found at least twenty worlds beyond Farholme with signs of human activity. Strictly, I’m told, it’s ‘intelligent life with industrial activity,’ but we may assume Homo sapiens.”
He pulled out a number of glossy sheets on which were printed images of fuzzy spheres on black starry backgrounds. Most were brown or gray and some were mottled. On some, white patches were present. Around each image were text summaries, diagrams, and graphs.
