The Dark Ascent

by Walter H Hunt

  "We . . . are . . . under attack," the High Chamberlain said softly.

  "Mental attack," Maartens said. The High Chamberlain bowed slightly, his neck-muscles bulging as he did so. Of course it's mental attack, you old fool, Maartens told himself. "How can I help?"

  "It seems impossible that . . . such force could be—projected across this great a distance, but . . . perhaps we have . . . underestimated our adversary. Send—to Admiral Stark to . . . warn him."

  "What about Nest HeYen?" Maartens chanced a look at the pilot's board: Xian Chuan, Nasser and the admiral's flagship, Mandela, were at turnover and starting to decelerate toward the battle zone.

  "It climbs . . . the Perilous Stair."

  The four guards nearest to Maartens adjusted their wings as T'te'e said this.

  "It's all alone."

  The three vuhl ships had begun to fire on Nest HeYen; it was returning fire but already starting to show energy buildup in its fields.

  "Report from sickbay, Skip," the comm officer said. "Dr. Callison reports that all ship's Sensitives have been brought in, either raving or comatose. He wants to speak with you—"

  "Tell him to stand by." Maartens returned his attention to the zor dignitary, "ha Chamberlain, is there anything we can do to fend off this attack?"

  "It . . . is possible that mod— . . . modulation of the ship's defensive fields might have an effect." The Chamberlain's blade flashed for a moment. "We have experienced . . . changes in Sensitive abilities when . . . a ship changes course or speed."

  "Comm," Maartens said without turning, "send that information to Mandela. Helm, begin evasive maneuvers. Begin sending a random energy fluctuation to the field travelers."

  "Aye-aye."

  Maartens looked at the pilot's board again. Mandela and Nasser were starting to veer away from the firefight between Nest HeYen and the enemy vessels. The Broadmoor-class ships had passed the point where they should have corrected their course; they were on a vector that would send them out of Thon's Well System at high speed.

  Emperor Ian and her sister ships had begun to decelerate. The Hang-class ships were still moving, but were far out of range.

  "They're attacking—"

  "They are attacking the . . . fleet," the High Chamberlain gasped out. "They are not all so . . . well defended."

  The bridge was completely quiet now. The High Chamberlain stood slightly straighter and his attendants stepped aside for him, though they remained on guard.

  "We have very little time," the Chamberlain said. He still seemed to be straining as he spoke. "You must inform the rest of your fleet that—"

  "Excuse me, Skip," Okome interrupted. "Take a look at this."

  Maartens and the Chamberlain stepped closer to the pilot's board, where Commander Okome pointed.

  Nest HeYen had continued its line of travel: It was on a collision course with the middle ship of the three vessels now lashing it with furious energy.

  "The High Lord is aboard Nest HeYen," the High Chamberlain said. "He—" His wings rearranged themselves, and then again. He turned to face the captain. "I must speak with the High Lord."

  "Comm," Maartens said, unwilling or unable now to look away, "hail Nest HeYen."

  Several moments passed. Nest HeYen crept forward, its icon on the pilot's board moving ever closer to the three main invaders.

  "Channel open, Skip."

  "hiL'le HeYen," the High Chamberlain said, and then spoke rapidly in the Highspeech. There was an instant audio-only reply and the zor communicated for some seconds while Nest HeYen crept nearer to the three alien ships that seemed to be converging.

  "What's happening?" Maartens said, at a pause in the conversation.

  "esLi's Golden Light," the High Chamberlain said. "In the name of esLi's Golden Light."

  "What the hell is—?"

  A racket of random static, explosions punctuated by the occasional scream of what might have been a zor voice, poured out of the comm channel—

  The forward viewscreen was polarized almost to opacity by a huge detonation thousands of kilometers away—

  And there was something else, like the sudden termination of a chorus of voices that had previously been inaudible: a sudden silence that drowned out all other sound . . .

  In his chamber in esYen within the sprawling High Nest compound, Sergei Torrijos screamed in his sleep. Healers were present night and day; the one currently on duty flew immediately to his bedside and began checking the old na-Zora'e's vital signs. Torrijos tossed back and forth a few times but then was silent; his body returned to its original torpor.

  The eyes never opened but the face took on an expression that, to other, humans, conveyed pain and sadness. Only later did the reason for such an expression become clear. As always, without wings to convey deeper meaning, the Gyaryu'har remained, at least in part, inscrutable.

  In a guarded chamber on the fourth moon of HaKeru— Zor'a's outer gas giant—a N'nr Deathguard writhed in pain against a sudden, violent assault on his n'n'eth. He knew where it was coming from: The most powerful Sensitives among the winged meat-creatures were feeling some unimaginable release of n'n'eth-energy.

  He changed his form to the one he had worn for several months, an Imperial naval officer named Christoph Kim whom he had consumed with his k'th's's, but it had no effect—the assault continued, wave after wave, preventing even the simplest thoughts from emerging from his i'kn-mind. Finally it overwhelmed him like a black wave too powerful to withstand, leaving him a lifeless husk.

  Maartens' question was left unfinished and unanswered. The High Chamberlain crumpled to the deck and was attended to at once by a guard. The transponder indicator for Nest HeYen winked off the pilot's board, along with all three of the enemy vessels.

  Maartens stepped back into the pilot's seat.

  "We're recording antimatter explosions, Skip," Suzanne Okome said. "Four of them."

  "Comm, get Nest HeYen," Maartens said, already knowing the answer. He glanced at the deck, where the High Chamberlain half lay, half knelt. "And get Dr. Callison up here."

  "She will not answer," the High Chamberlain whispered.

  "Comm?" Maartens said.

  "I have a large packet of transmitted data from the Nest HeYen, Skip, but I can't raise the ship. It's gone, sir. Also, I have an incoming message from the Flag."

  Maartens looked from the High Chamberlain to the forward screen and then back again. The comm channels were clogged with messages, and his comm officer was struggling to filter them out. "Let's have the message from Mandela."

  "Channel's open, Skip."

  "Captain," said a voice almost drowned in static. "This is Admiral Stark aboard Mandela. Is the High Chamberlain still aboard your vessel?"

  "Yes sir," Maartens answered. "He's—a trifle indisposed at the moment. We have just recorded a large explosion, likely involving Nest HeYen."

  "Consider it confirmed," Stark answered. "Nest HeYen activated its self-destruct sequence within a few dozen kilometers of the enemy ships. It . . . seems to have had the desired effect."

  "I'm not sure I understand, Admiral."

  The High Chamberlain had gotten to his feet somehow and was now standing beside the pilot's seat.

  "The High Lord has transcended the Outer Peace," the High Chamberlain said.

  "ha Chamberlain—" Maartens began, but the High Chamberlain's wings altered their position slightly.

  "Dead, se Captain. Along with everyone aboard Nest HeYen. Along with the intruder vessels, it seems."

  Maartens could not directly answer.

  At last the navigator said, "Confirmed, Skip. There appears to be a great deal of debris moving at high relative velocity from the blast area. No sign of either Nest HeYen or the bogeys."

  Maartens clutched at the arms of the pilot's chair as he grasped the impact of what had happened and what it meant. He'd been shocked by enough things in the past few months, but this was something else.

  "What was the sound we heard?" he asked
the High Chamberlain.

  "Chya'i. It was the sound of thousands of chya'i and their bearers giving their hsi back to the Lord esLi, all at once." T'te'e's wings settled almost onto his shoulders. "It does not take a very powerful Sensitive to register that.

  "My chya, too, should have been consumed in that explosion."

  Maartens had no reply.

  Chapter 8

  THE LEGEND OF QU'U (continued)

  AS QU'U ADVANCED INTO THE FORTRESS WITH

  CHYA BEFORE HIM, HE FELT AS IF SIXTY-FOURS OF SIXTY-

  FOURS OF EYES WERE GAZING UPON HIM.

  THE FOG ON THE STAIR WAS LEFT [Uncloaked Before the Deceiver]

  BEHIND, AND THE ANGRY SKY ROARED ABOVE,

  LIGHTNINGS CRASHING UPON THE BATTLEMENTS

  AS IF DRAWN THERE.

  BEFORE HIM, HE COULD SEE AN OPEN COURTYARD, SWEPT

  BY WIND AND DRENCHED BY RAIN. THERE WERE EIGHT

  STATUES PLACED THERE, EACH SHOWING A WARRIOR OF

  THE PEOPLE HORRIBLY WOUNDED. THEY SEEMED

  TERRIBLY LIFELIKE; QU'U WOULD HAVE PASSED THEM BY

  WITH NO MORE THAN A RESPECTFUL

  WING-GESTURE, UNTIL HE REALIZED THAT THE [tortures of the Hssa]

  STATUES WERE NOT OF STONE OR CLAY—BUT WERE INSTEAD LIVING

  WARRIORS, TRAPPED IN THEIR FROZEN POSITIONS BY SOME SORCERY OF

  DESPITE. THE PLEADING EYES CRIED OUT TO HIM, BUT THE WINGS COULD

  NOT MOVE TO FORM A PHRASE. LIKE THE WARRIORS TRAPPED IN THE VALLEY

  FAR BELOW, THEIRS WAS A PRISON WITH NO ESCAPE.

  They lodged Jackie in a high-rise apartment block in Center's biggest metropolis to await H'mr's arrival. It was an automated city, in what seemed to be a constant state of urban renewal. Robotic construction equipment was visible from her window forty stories in the air, at every stage of work from bulldozing to construction to finish work. From what she'd been able to learn about the world, it fit: Center had been founded by a religious group dedicated to the veneration of technology; the group had arrived there late in the twenty-third century, equipped with nanofactory equipment, and had set about converting the planet's rich raw materials to industry and transport networks and cities. For a century the planet had grown in population, extending civilization across its surface, and across Center System . . . And at the end of the following century the vuhls had arrived and taken it, seemingly without firing a shot—what they'd intended to do at Cicero as well.

  K'na didn't turn up again, either at Jackie's apartment or in the city center when she went out for a look around. It was eerie: She'd found her way to Center—the Perilous Stair. Jackie had managed to pass the first test just as Qu'u had done; and she was on the Stair without Hyos, just as Qu'u had been.

  In fact, she wasn't sure just what to do next. She argued the point with Th'an'ya, who assured her that esLi would provide. Jackie wasn't quite so sanguine about the outcome. It was a matter of survival for both of them.

  Th'an'ya was now with her almost continuously, though she was rarely visible except by way of a sidewise glance in a mirror or in one of the polished metal or glass surfaces that proliferated in the city.

  The voice of the sword was there as well, whispering phrases from zor legend, as well as encouragements such as, Come claim your heritage. Come to the Center.

  She ignored it, not knowing what to make of the comments, not sure how to proceed. It was as if she, like Qu'u, were waiting for something to happen to permit her to stumble into the next adventure.

  She didn't have long to wait.

  Three nights after her arrival on Center, she was preparing a meal when the apartment door chimed. This was a surprise; only residents could enter using passkeys, or admit guests through a code entered into the apartment comp. She knew no one, either within the building or outside. The most likely visitor—First Drone H'mr—probably wouldn't have to ring.

  Setting her preparations aside, she reached for her coat and pulled out her pistol. She gestured at the 3-V monitor that showed the outside hallway.

  Standing outside her door was a familiar figure, one whose face she'd seen perched atop a zor body and then, more recently, melt into the image of Bryan Noyes on Crossover—before he had become something even more frightening.

  This is some kind of trick, she thought. This is a vuhl.

  I do not sense the hsi of an esGa'uYe outside the door, se Jackie, Th'an'ya answered from within her mind. This seems to be a naZora'e.

  As she watched, Damien Abbas looked up and down the hallway, stepped back from the door for a moment as if to examine it, then rang the doorchime again. He looked more worn and aged; but he had the same stocky frame that she remembered.

  She waved at the door-release and the door slid aside. She kept the pistol pointed directly at it. Damien Abbas, former captain of the Negri Sembilan, had an expression of pure joy on his face when he saw her, but it melted away when he caught sight of the weapon.

  The door slid shut behind him. He slowly spread his arms wide, away from his body.

  "I'm unarmed."

  "I can see that," she answered. "Move very, very slowly to the armchair."

  He did so, not taking his eyes off her. The armchair faced the apartment window and overlooked the night-lit city; he sat in it. She could see his reflection against the darkness and her own reflection behind him, the weapon pointed out in front of her.

  "I hope it wasn't something I said," he remarked at last.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I could probably ask you the same question, but you've got the gun."

  "I'm a little short on humor, Damien. How did you know to find me here?"

  "I followed you home, ma'am. I saw you on the street—" He began to swivel the chair, but she took aim with the laser: Her reflection did the same and Abbas froze.

  "You stay where you are." She gestured with the pistol. "Let's have a few answers to a few questions first. What are you doing here?"

  "I told you, Commodore, I saw you on the—"

  "On this planet. Why are you on this planet?"

  "That's a complicated question."

  "No, it's a simple question. Do you have a complicated answer to it, Captain?"

  "Yes ma'am, I do." He brought his hands together and Jackie tensed; but he just cracked a couple of knuckles and she relaxed. "There are parts of it I understand very well and there are others I don't understand at all."

  "Let's start from the beginning. What happened to your ship?"

  Abbas didn't answer, but cracked a few more knuckles.

  "Answer me. At Sargasso—what happened at Sargasso?"

  "Bugs," he said. "They took Negri, with the help of the Sensitives. They took it—and they took my place. I know it's hard for you to believe—"

  "You'd be surprised what I'll believe, Captain. Go on."

  "The bugs took Negri, ma'am. You know about the bugs, I suppose."

  "Intimately."

  Abbas looked at the reflection of Jackie Laperriere in the window. "The ones who took the place of the chief officers . . . including me . .. took out Gustav Adolf II when it came to investigate."

  Jackie felt a lump in her throat and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Continue. What happened next?"

  "They dumped us here. Twenty or thirty of us—from Negri, the Johore, a few other ships. I'm not sure why—no one was in any hurry to tell us. From what I was able to learn, the other ships had been captured when some admiral came out after us."

  "Admiral Horace Tolliver. Most of his ships didn't come home at all."

  "So I gathered, ma'am." Abbas turned to face her, but her pistol didn't waver. He looked at her almost pleadingly, but at a slight gesture turned away again to face the reflecting window. "We found each other here on Center. Fellow prisoners and all. They put us to work—I drive an aircar down at the port."

  "And now, I suppose, you're the leader of the secret underground."

  "Not hardly." Abbas looked down at his hands; perhaps
he had run out of knuckles to crack. "Can't make much of a secret underground with only one person."

  "But you said—"

  "The secret underground . . . got away, ma'am. On the Negri Sembilan."

  "How? How'd you fight the—the bugs?"

  "We had our secret weapon."

  "Which was—?"

  "Garrett."

  She thought a moment, trying to place the name. "Garrett? You mean Lieutenant Garrett? The pilot from the Duc d'Enghien?"

  "That's the one. Had the Imperial tour of a bug ship, from what he said. Then he turned up here—claimed he'd walked some kind of rainbow bridge from there to here."

  "That happened ten days' jump away. You're telling me that he 'walked' through jump?"

  Abbas didn't answer. Instead, he stood up from the chair and began walking toward Jackie. She aimed her weapon directly at his chest but he didn't waver. He didn't make any sudden moves, but he didn't hesitate, either.

  "You're not going to shoot me," Abbas said. "And I'm not a bug, and I'm not your enemy, and I'm tired of looking out the damn window."

  Jackie lowered her pistol, but didn't set it down.

  "I'm trying to tell you what Garrett told me. He . . . remembered having been scooted off a bug ship with the help of a bunch of colored bands of light. They talked to him, told him they were helping him to escape so that he could teach."

  "Teach who?"

  "Not sure, ma'am."

  "Teach what?"

  "Don't know. But I have my suspicions. Garrett had this ability—he could tell when someone was a bug in disguise. It was the damnedest thing—he didn't know how he did it, but it worked . . . The bugs knew something was up: They were spying on us; they'd decided he was dangerous."

  "Did they know why?"

  "Not as far as I know, Commodore. They were just watching him."

  "So Garrett's on the Negri now?"

  Abbas looked at her as if he wasn't sure he could answer the question, then he looked down at his feet. "Yes ma'am. And I have no idea where the ship has gone."