The Dark Ascent

by Walter H Hunt

  "And why the hell aren't you with him, then?"

  "I was. The last time I saw him, we were both on the bridge of Negri. So were a few dozen of His Majesty's loyal officers and crew. With Garrett's ability, we'd been able to take control of a gig and then take the ship back. There were only six bugs on the ship—it was almost too easy."

  Almost too easy, Jackie thought. Where have I heard that before?

  "But something happened."

  "And I have no idea what it was. I was with the group that took the ship—and there was a bug that looked just like me. He and his two friends . . . got to most of us. Then the lights went out, and—"

  "'And'?"

  "And then the lights went on again and I was sittin' in The Shield with a drink in front of me. I was in a goddamn bar with a drink." His hands had made fists. "And I was all alone."

  ". . . How long ago did this happen?"

  "Several days ago, ma'am."

  "And Negri—"

  "It's gone from Center System, that's for sure—with everyone else on board. No one else has turned up. They must know I'm here, but days have gone by and . . . nothing. No bugs. It's like I don't even matter."

  "You helped steal a ship—killed, what was it, six of the bugs? How could they just leave you alone?"

  "Commodore, I swear to God I don't know. I don't know why the hell I'm not on the bridge of my ship. I don't know why I'm still alive. I don't know why I get up each morning and go to the port."

  A sign, the voice said to her from within her mind.

  "And I don't know why I'm here, either," she answered, after a moment. She looked into Abbas' eyes, trying to reassure him. "I think you're a pawn in this game, whatever it is. Owen Garrett probably is, also.

  "I'm sure I am."

  "So . . . why are you on this planet, ma'am?" Abbas asked. "Garrett said you'd evacuated Cicero so that the bugs wouldn't take it. What got you to Center? Are you undercover?"

  She began to answer and then stopped. No, she thought. I can't volunteer any information. This is a trap.

  This is a shNa'es'ri, a crossroads, Mighty Hero, she heard in her mind. A step away—or a step forward. It is up to you to choose.

  They were the words the Abbas-zor had spoken to her when she stood at the base of the Perilous Stair.

  I got it, she thought. Abbas is here, I'm here. If you 're so damned smart, why don't you help me out on this? she asked the voice, angrily. Tell me what I'm supposed to do. If this is really Damien Abbas, then maybe he can help get me closer to you.

  She let her eyes close for just a moment, trying to extend her perception. She wanted to reach something she could not identify, something she could hardly understand.

  It is up to you to choose, the voice repeated.

  She opened her eyes to see a look of surprise on Damien Abbas' face, bordering on terror. His hands were clenched at his sides.

  What the hell? she thought.

  "I am here for a specific purpose. It's probably best you don't know any details," Jackie said.

  "All right," he agreed. "Then I guess . . . I'm reporting for duty."

  "I'm not sure where this is leading. I—" I have to go alone, she thought to herself.

  "In the final analysis, Mighty Qu'u," the guardian of the Perilous Stair had said, "you must be alone. It is your destiny." And he had worn the face of Damien Abbas.

  "Damien, I can't promise you—or myself—anything. I'm almost completely in the dark, feeling my way along."

  "At least you're moving, Commodore. I'd rather be moving than standing still."

  She set the laser down on the counter. "I can't answer right now. Come back tomorrow and I'll know what I want you to do. In the meanwhile, don't even think about me, about this meeting or anything related to it. If the Overlords realized who I was, where I was—"

  "I understand."

  "You'd better go. I've got a lot of work to do."

  As if suddenly released, Abbas stood quickly and made for the door. "Tomorrow," he repeated.

  "Be prompt," she added.

  "Aye-aye ma'am," he said, and threw her a quick salute. The door slid open and he stepped through and out.

  She looked at the window after he was gone and saw Th'an'ya's image there beside her reflection.

  "I either took a step closer to the gyaryu, or gave myself over to the Deceiver," Jackie said. "Or maybe both."

  "The gyaryu is very close, se Jackie. The appearance of Captain Abbas is a sign that you are upon the Perilous Stair and that you have passed the shNa'es'ri. Now you are climbing on the Stair. The Fortress lies at the end."

  "In my dreams," Jackie answered, turning away to lean on the counter, "I refused to complete the legend. I wouldn't go into the Fortress. I believed I could not do what Qu'u had done: face certain death, believing that esLi would save him in the end.

  "I'm still not one of the People, damn it." She turned to face the window again. Th'an'ya's image had disappeared.

  "And I'm not Qu'u," she added, to herself.

  In the final analysis, Mighty Qu 'u, you must be alone. It is your destiny.

  On the jump from Cle'eru to the naval base at Stanton, Owen Garrett interrogated Negri Sembilan's unexpected passenger: the Confederated Press reporter Ian Kwan, who had convinced him that it was worth their while to transport him back from Cle'eru to a more civilized part of the Empire. Kwan had been left behind on the zor colony with no way to get home, and had bargained for his passage with the only currency that made any sense: information about the progress of the war.

  "I've got a nose for news," he said to Owen, a day into jump. "I've just run into a little bad luck."

  "That," Owen answered, "is an understatement."

  They were sitting in the main galley. It could have been the wardroom, but Owen didn't feel like entertaining as if he were really the captain of Negri Sembilan. Even if he had, Ian Thomas Kwan wasn't the sort of person he wanted reclining there. Something about him bothered Owen—he wasn't sure if it was Kwan himself, or reporters in general.

  Owen took a sip of coffee. Kwan toyed idly with his comp.

  "I thought I had a ride," Kwan said. "I was planning to travel with Hansie Sharpe, but the little bastard took off without me. There wasn't a merchanter left in the system and I didn't expect to find space on a naval vessel. I appreciate it, I really do."

  "We're a bit . . . out of the ordinary."

  "Oh?" Kwan sat forward. He was recording the session, Owen was sure; rather than object, he knew that he could just make sure the comp met an untimely end if something got in there that shouldn't have.

  "Tell me what's happening," Owen said, changing the subject.

  "You've heard about Thon's Well, of course."

  "Tell me more." Owen couldn't place the name—it was a solar system, but he had no idea where it was.

  "You don't know." Kwan's eyebrows went up. "You must've been pretty far outside the Empire, then."

  You don't know the half of it, Owen thought, glancing at the comp on the table. And you 're not going to. But he said nothing.

  "Apparently, the enemy," Kwan continued, "whatever it is, attacked a major fleet deployment there. After Adrianople fell"—Owen's stomach jumped, and he tried not to show it—"the Admiralty sent a large part of the fleet to Thon's Well. Why the hell the fleet was there, I have no idea, but there they were. Apparently the zor flagship—with the High Lord aboard—was destroyed at close proximity to the enemy. Took 'em all out."

  "The High Lord was killed?"

  "I should say so. Of course, they say he was crazy—maybe that's why . . . Well, when the old man, the sword-bearer—"

  "Torrijos."

  "That's the one." Kwan held Owen's gaze for a few moments, perhaps a bit surprised that Owen knew the name. "Anyhow, when the old man's body was returned to the zor homeworld, the crazy High Lord made a fool of himself on 3-V. At least for a while—it was cut off. The High Lord said that the aliens were going to roll right over us and destroy us .
. .

  "What do you think?"

  "I don't have an opinion on the subject."

  "You must, Captain. We're at war—we haven't had a war since Marais' fleet went after the zor. I thought you military guys would be all kinds of excited about this. Take that commodore who passed through here a few weeks ago—she was thick as thieves with the zor, and it seems like this is a war they've been expecting for a while."

  "That commodore?" Owen thought. "You met Commodore Laperriere?"

  "At one of Hansie's parties. She didn't have much to say—to me, at least."

  "Meaning—"

  "Nothing." Kwan sipped his own coffee. "She wasn't talking to the press that night. I tried to give her some friendly advice . . ." He spread his hands wide.

  "The commodore doesn't take much advice," Owen said; adding, to himself, At least from people like you.

  "I got that impression. You know her well?"

  "I'm serving under her," Owen said. "Right now."

  Kwan looked at him curiously.

  "I'm going to give you a little piece of advice of my own," Owen said quietly. "This war has started to get very serious, Mr. Kwan. It's likely to get worse before it gets better. You should probably figure out who your friends are—and who your enemies are." He leaned forward across the table; Kwan seemed to shrink back. "You should make sure Commodore Laperriere isn't one of them."

  Chapter 9

  CONDEMNED TO LIFE. A TERM USED TO DESCRIBE ONE OF THE PEOPLE WHO HAS BEEN DECLARED IDJU, OR DISHONORED; BUT WHO, FOR SOME REASON, IS NOT PERMITTED TO TRANSCEND THE OUTER PEACE—I.E., TO TAKE HIS OWN LIFE. USUALLY THIS PERSON MUST COMPLETE SOME SPECIFIC TASK AS A WAY OF EITHER EARNING THE RIGHT TO SUICIDE OR TO BE READMITTED TO THE SOCIETY OF THE PEOPLE.

  —Dr. Ariana Sontag,

  Dictionary of Zor Sociology,

  New Chicago University Press, 2314

  "se S'reth."

  S'reth heard his name being spoken as if from a world away. anGa'e'ren lay lurking outside the hull of the orbital station that hung above the homeworld. S'reth felt it like a shroud at the edge of his consciousness, but he kept it at bay.

  "Honored One, I ask eight thousand pardons, but I must speak with you."

  S'reth cast aside the curtain of contemplation for a long-enough moment to open an eye and examine the other. Rh't'e HeNa'a, Speaker for the Young Ones, stood on a nearby perch; his wings were held in the Posture of Polite Approach. It was close enough to be intrusive, but far enough away to avoid offense.

  He had come back to Zor'a just a sun earlier. His time with the fleet had tired him more than anything in eight turns, at least—even more than flying to the top of the esGa'u-cursed chamber to speak with the High Chamberlain, which had been his fate when he last visited the homeworld.

  The viewing lounge aboard the station was barely occupied. This suited him: Most of its inhabitants had kept their distance from him during his short time here—some, he knew, held him in low esteem and perhaps even contempt, while others had some sort of reverence that S'reth found equally inappropriate.

  "I should know better than to sleep in a public place," S'reth said softly, finding his voice after a moment. "The respect of Younger Brothers is such that none would interrupt, ascribing great solemnity to what is no more than the onset of senility."

  "Honored One, I—"

  "Pah. It is nothing, se Rh't'e. How can this old one help you?" He used the "se" prenomen without thinking; the Speaker for the Young Ones deserved "ha," but S'reth couldn't be bothered anymore.

  Perhaps this is the Dark Understanding, S'reth thought to himself. It is no worse an explanation than has been offered in the last sixty-four of sixty-fours of turns since the story of Qu 'u became legend.

  "Advice, se S'reth, nothing more."

  "Advice should be accompanied by egeneh. Come closer, se Speaker." S'reth noted that Rh't'e's wings communicated some trepidation. It made him wonder where the other's feelings lay: in contempt or in reverence. He guessed it was the latter and dismissed it as foolishness, a false mystique he admittedly had done nothing to deter.

  "Let me order some refreshment." The Speaker descended gently to the floor and spoke a request. S'reth followed, slowly and carefully, his inner ear accounting for the slight spin in the orbital base as he did so.

  The legend was almost complete now: It had all come to pass, just as they had believed it would. The servants of esGa'u traveled abroad through the World That Is, and Qu'u was near the top of the Perilous Stair, having finally passed the shNa'es'ri, just as in the legend.

  As for the terrible destruction of Thon's Well System: hi'i Ke'erl's sacrifice was reminiscent of a passage in the story of seLi'e'Yan, "Standing Within the Circle." General ha'i Ge'el e'Yen—after the destruction of the Legion of esLi—transcended the Outer Peace while releasing the hsi from many eights of chya. Despair had driven ha'i Ge'el; S'reth was not sure what had caused hi'i Ke'erl to resort to such an extremity, but he might have had that legend in mind.

  "You came here to speak of seLi'e'Yan and the anGa'riSsa of ha'i Ge'el, se Rh't'e?"

  "It is difficult to broach the subject, se S'reth. Paralleling hi'i Ke'erl to ha'i Ge'el . . . There are some in the Council of Eleven who suggest that our High Lord's madness brought him to believe that he must transcend the Outer Peace thus. So many chya'i—such a waste."

  "A waste, se Rh't'e? I am not so sure. It may have bought Qu'u valuable time."

  Rh't'e contemplated this for a moment, and S'reth thought to himself: Of course it is a waste, you old artha. It follows the legend exactly, but . . . such a cost.

  "Patterns within patterns, the weave of destiny, the palest shadow of esLi's Golden Light," S'reth said into the silence. "It does not surprise me, not now. We cannot do other than accept."

  "I must ask you a question, Honored One. Both Byar HeShri and the High Chamberlain do nothing but dissemble, but I am confident that you will answer." The Speaker's wings oriented themselves in the Stance of Respectful Expectation: He awaited a direct and truthful answer. "Did you know that it would come to this? How long have you known?"

  "'Come to this'?'

  "The death of the High Lord. The coming of the esGa'uYal, the loss of the gyaryu, and, particularly, the choice of a naZora'e to rescue it. No one in the Council knew of this last. They—we—were aware of the enemy lurking in anGa'e'ren, but no one knew that the Gyaryu'har would be thus risked.

  "So here we are—"

  "Where the Eight Winds have blown us," S'reth interjected.

  "So here we are," the Speaker repeated, his wings settling into the Posture of Polite Annoyance, "with a new High Lord, no Gyaryu'har, and no gyaryu unless esLi wills that the naZora'e is able to recover it. Where does that leave us, se S'reth?"

  "It leaves us where we expected, Younger Brother," S'reth replied. "seLi'e'Yan. 'Standing Within the Circle.' We still await Dri'i, the one who will teach the Shield of Hatred to the heroes of Sharia'a."

  S'reth sighed, feeling the dust of Ur'ta leHssa heavy on his wings. "To answer your question: Yes, this was foreseen. Prescience is not always accurate, se Speaker." The door chimed and slid aside; an alHyu stepped into the room with a tray bearing egeneh and cups. The servant settled them on a side-table and departed rapidly.

  "Why were we not informed of this?"

  "Would it have changed anything, Younger Brother? I have been where you are now. I know what the Council of Eleven does, how it functions, se Byar knew, ha T'te'e knew. I knew. A few others as well, hi'i Ke'erl—may he dwell within esLi's Golden Light—knew that this sun would be reached and he might not be here to see it."

  "And ha T'te'e—"

  "Yes?" S'reth took up the pitcher from the tray and poured steaming egeneh into two unadorned cups and the shallow saucer left on the side. He dipped one extruded talon into the saucer and raised it, dripping, to draw the sign of esLi in the air. Both he and Rh't'e placed their wings in a posture of reverence for a moment; then he took up the cups and handed one to t
he other. "esLiHeYar; Younger Brother. Now drink."

  They drank. S'reth felt the beverage course through him, making his shoulders and thin wings shiver for a moment.

  "My old friend ha T'te'e rightly believes that it would be most harmonious to his Inner Peace to have been by the side of his lord when hi'i Ke'erl transcended the Outer Peace and conveyed his own hsi to esLi. If there is anything his training and the past few years' experience should have taught him, is that it simply was not meant to be.

  "He will be troubled for many suns, Younger Brother. Then he will realize that hi'i Ke'erl knew in advance how important his presence would be while Qu'u climbed the Perilous Stair. That is why he has been condemned to life."

  "'Condemned to life.'" Rh't'e shook his egeneh-cup slightly, making the liquid swirl in a circle.

  "Let me set your mind at ease on another point, se Speaker." S'reth placed his cup on the tray and turned to face the Speaker directly. "Before the High Lord destroyed Nest HeYen, and the esGa'uYal with it, he sent a transmission to the High Chamberlain. You should review this transmission carefully, se Rh't'e.

  "hi'i Ke'erl held the Inner Peace when he transcended the Outer Peace. He knew what he was doing; he was not trapped in Ur'ta leHssa.

  "In short, se Speaker, the High Lord did not die insane. Pursued by demons, yes. Seized by the truth; faced with the reality of the World That Is; burdened and perhaps crushed by leading the People through this shNa'es'ri—yes, all of those things—but not insane.

  "esLi give us strength," S'reth said softly, his wings again in a position of homage. "esLi give us the will to fly such a path with the courage that hi'i Ke'erl possessed."

  The Speaker for the Young Ones seemed to consider this for a moment, testing the breeze with his wings.

  "The humans will not understand this."

  "The easy answer, my friend, is to say, 'Let the humans think what they will.' However, it is that sort of approach that will allow the esGa'uYal to destroy us. The only alternative, I am afraid, is to try and explain it to them.

  "They must know. They must understand that hi'i Ke'erl's action was not just an expedient; it was truly a sacrifice.