"How did I come to be here?" she shouted against the wind that swirled around her.
"The Stair," the voice answered. "You climbed the Stair, for you had no wings to fly."
"Don't remind me, damn it!" She pulled the cloak closer around her, feeling the broken chya in an inner pocket . . . warm, almost alive. "This image, this construct—how is it represented in the real world?"
"This is the real world, Mighty Hero. This is the World That Is."
"This is the Plain of Despite!" she answered quickly. "The Plain of Despite isn't in the World That Is!"
"When the esGa'uYal walk the earth, when the High Lord has given up his hsi to the Lord esLi," the voice replied, "how will you distinguish them?"
"Answer my question!"
"The path you choose will lead you here, Mighty Hero."
"Any path?"
"The path you choose," the voice answered. "The path to the Fortress."
Tonight's storm seemed to resemble the terrible one in her dream; lightning emerged from the clouds over the distant mountains almost a hundred kilometers away. In her mind's eye she filled in the backdrop of the Icewall beyond it, extending from the unseen horizon to the zenith of the sky; its substance formed from the blue-black clouds illuminated by intermittent flashes that fought for position through the angry storm.
In a way, the scene before her apartment window was more surreal: more like a scene from a book than the view she'd had in her dream from the top of the Perilous Stair. A zor sage like S'reth would no doubt have some cryptic aphorism at this point, like the insistent voice of the gyaryu that haunted her, awake and sleeping.
She wanted it to be over with. Being alone with the burden of the legend had pushed her forward, but made both her career and her life seem small and insignificant in comparison— feelings incompatible with her personal and professional self-esteem. Somehow, a resolution, even a defeat, seemed preferable.
While she stood there, the door chimed. She glanced at the outside monitor and saw Damien Abbas, or at least someone who looked like him.
Is that him? she asked Th'an'ya.
She waited for the familiar response for a moment.
Th'an'ya? she asked again. The door chimed again. Her mental voice seemed to echo, as if down a long corridor, but she heard no response from Ch'k'te's soul-mate.
Instead, the inner voice answered: It is beginning, mighty Hero. Like Hyos, E're'a is trapped in Ur'ta leHssa.
Trapped? Jackie could not help but repeat. E're'a was the spirit guide from the Qu'u legend. To her surprise, the voice answered her directly.
Only the hero can complete the ascent of the Perilous Stair, it said. The hero must go alone. You knew that from the beginning.
Jackie thought about the image of the Valley she'd experienced back at Crossover when Ch'k'te was still alive: the large, spread-out L'le with the despairing zor trapped there, the burden of the Valley settling heavy on their wings. In the inner region, there had been an octagonal town square, where hundreds of zor had been rendered immobile and lifeless.
Ur'ta leHssa: the Valley of Lost Souls. Somehow esGa'u had plucked Th'an'ya away and . . . trapped her there. Jackie had to remind herself that this was not like the human perception of Hell: The Lord of Despite could trap anyone in the Valley, regardless of merit—it was not as a punishment for evil deeds. Only the will of esLi could rescue someone from there.
The door chimed a third time; from the monitor, it was clear that Damien Abbas was very nervous. He had no Th'an'ya to consult—and now, neither did she.
She stepped to the control and opened the door. Abbas quickly darted inside and the door closed behind him. "What's wrong?" he asked immediately.
"Something's happened," she answered. She grabbed her jacket, feeling for the familiar broken chya and her pistol.
"What—"
"It's hard to explain. Do you have your aircar?"
"It's parked on the roof. I don't know how long it'll be before it's missed."
"Do you think you can reach those mountains?" she gestured toward the distant range, illuminated by a sudden crash of lightning. The light from outside cut a hawklike mask on Abbas' face.
"In this weather? I . . . I guess so. The fuel tank's full, but if there's too much turbulence, we might have problems."
"But it's possible."
"It's possible."
"Let's go, then." She took his elbow and steered him toward the door, suddenly forced into motion. This is it, she thought. The path to the Fortress.
Abbas turned out to be an expert pilot. Despite the wind and driving rain, he fought the little craft into the air, and presently they were above the city, heading toward the mountains. He reached cruising altitude with the tank gauge still reading near full.
"I suppose you have a plan," he said.
"I've got something in mind. Tell me more about the bugs."
He looked forward through the windscreen and then back at her. Lightning flashed close by, near enough to make them both flinch. When it passed, his face was framed again in strange half-shadows.
"The bugs can appear human, but we've seen them dead in their native form." Abbas gritted his teeth, not looking away from the controls. Jackie didn't inquire as to how he'd seen a dead bug.
"The ruler is called the Great Queen. She's off-planet somewhere, farther out in space where the Empire has never explored, Orionward. Her representative here on Center is someone called the Second Drone, though everyone just calls him 'the Governor.' The Drones are some kind of elite warrior class. They seem to be constantly jousting, forming alliances and dying to outwit each other.
"There's a First Drone—he's also off-planet, and everyone's afraid of him, including the Governor. There are also Third and Fourth Drones and a whole host of lesser ones, as well. There are also some scary folks called 'Deathguard'; they're also involved in the political struggles somehow. From what I hear, the First Drone is supposedly coming to Center soon, on some kind of inspection tour."
"I know." H'mr will not be pleased, she remembered. I can well imagine.
Abbas looked at her, unsure how to respond. He looked away and made an adjustment to the aircar's course and speed, checking the fuel.
'The Great Queen had apparently hoped to invade the Empire a little bit at a time, taking ships from us, seizing control of stations, taking . . . taking the place of—" Some memory seemed to frighten him and he turned his attention back to piloting for a moment. "They took Cicero but somehow they showed their intentions."
"That's right." Jackie felt her fists clench in her lap and she forced her hands to relax. That was a lifetime ago, an eternity ago.
"They're waging a war that they can't help but win," he said matter-of-factly. "They're too far ahead of us, their Sensitives are too powerful. They can change shape, take anyone's place."
"That doesn't mean they'll win," she said, realizing how it must sound. "My mission—"
"What is it, ma'am? Why are you here on Center?"
Suddenly there was a brilliant flash of lightning, seemingly right outside the cabin of the aircar. The light was bright enough to blind her for a moment; but not before she caught a glimpse of some sort of rainbow, like a series of colored bands, scoring through the cabin. When her vision had cleared, she found that she had Ch'k'te's broken chya in her hand.
Opposite her, Damien Abbas was still looking at her, his eyes open, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and fright.
She looked at the chya and then back at him again. He did not seem to be moving at all. To her inner hearing, there was an afterecho of a terrible word, something spoken to her companion that she could not hear . . . that would have ended her life if she had heard it instead.
Someone—some thing—had turned Abbas' mind off, like a power switch.
Just like John Maisel.
Alone, the inner voice said.
The aircar, lacking its pilot, began to respond to the storm, tossing this way and that, bucking in th
e wind, headed for the ground.
Dan McReynolds and Georg Maartens stood at the end of a long arbor on the ground floor of the huge main hall of the High Nest, while zor of all descriptions walked and flew above them. It had been an eight-day jump getting here. After arranging the High Chamberlain's reception at the Zor'a orbital base, Maartens had inquired for orders, only to learn that the High Lord had asked for the two of them personally.
McReynolds rocked slowly from foot to foot, impatient to get on with whatever was about to happen. Maartens, equally impatient but damned if he would to show it, stood at parade rest, observing the zor who were glancing toward the humans. After a moment, they would give up the challenge: it crossed language and race boundaries, and though the human was the alien here, he seemed able to hold his own.
"The High Lord will see you now," said a voice, and the two humans turned to face a younger zor. He adjusted his wings—as zor constantly, inscrutably did—and beckoned for McReynolds and Maartens to follow.
They walked under the arbor after the zor, who wore a red-brown sash, as had every official they'd met thus far. "The High Lord sends her apologies," he said, after a moment. "She was in contemplation."
Maartens looked at McReynolds, who returned a similar glance. "She"? "Her"? he thought, knowing McReynolds was thinking the same.
Moments later, Maartens would have had to admit, if pressed, that he would not have been able to tell the difference: the zor—perched at the center of a vibrant, growing garden with deep-blue sky overhead—seemed the same as all of the others he'd met in the course of his career. Perhaps the wings were darker or lighter, the head a bit more angular—but there was no obvious physiological difference, no change in costume or stance, to indicate this zor was female.
"hi Sa'a," he said, when the young servant gestured for them to step forward, to stand before the High Lord's perch. "esLiHeYar. It is a pleasure."
"Captain Maartens," the High Lord replied. Her voice was different in some fashion Maartens could not place. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well. And you must be Captain McReynolds," she said to Dan, who looked even more nervous.
"Dan McReynolds," he said, extending his hand; then, realizing this might not be appropriate, he began to withdraw it. But before he could do so, the High Lord had come down from her perch and gently grasped his forearms with her taloned hands. He smiled faintly, not knowing whether he'd done something right.
Her wings settled. "There are many questions I would ask," she said. "But I forget my duty as host. May I offer you refreshment?"
"Sure," McReynolds said, and let his hand fall to his side.
A pair of chairs already conformed to human shape were present, along with a table set out with h'geRu and g'rey'l. Toasts were offered and drank to.
"hi Sa'a," Maartens said, after a pause, "I don't exactly know why we're here."
"You are here at my request," she said, as if that were news.
"I understand that, ma'am," he answered. "I'm not sure we can add any information to what you already know."
"I do not require any additional information," the High Lord said. "I only wished to meet the companions of Qu'u. Of se Jackie. I have never met her, myself."
"I haven't seen her since Crossover," Dan answered.
"No, but you know her well."
"Not as well as I thought I did." Dan ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his neck. "Look, se—uh, hi—Sa'a, do you know something we don't? . . . No, that's not quite the question." He set his glass on a table. "Obviously you know more than we know. Do you know where Jackie is?"
"Outside the Fortress of Despite," the High Lord answered at once. "Very near the gyaryu."
"I mean in real life."
"You make a distinction that I do not understand."
"What planet is she on?"
"I do not know. Does it matter?" The High Lord's wings changed position again. "If you knew the answer to that question, what would you do?"
"'Do'?" McReynolds looked at Maartens. "I guess I'd try to get her out of there."
"She is there for a purpose."
"Your purpose," Dan said, finding himself growing annoyed. "Not her purpose."
"I must differ with you, se Captain." The High Lord's head turned to one side, as if she were listening to something far-off and remote. "This is another distinction I cannot appreciate. She is Qu'u now, and Qu'u stands before the Fortress of Despite. She will confront the Deceiver shortly."
"And the Deceiver will destroy her, if legend holds true," Maartens said.
"She will obtain the gyaryu first."
"And then he will destroy her, hi Sa'a," Maartens persisted. "Is there nothing we can do? How can we . . ." He set his glass down. "How can we just sit here, powerless, while she—"
"se Captain. We are powerless. Qu'u must confront this final challenge alone. Honored Cousin si Ch'k'te has transcended the Outer Peace. The spirit-guide is trapped in Ur'ta leHssa, the Valley of Lost Souls. The guardian of the Stair showed the way, and now she is alone."
"Wait a sec," McReynolds said. "You said that the spirit-guide is trapped in the Valley of, uh, Lost Souls. How can that be? Has she lost Th'an'ya?"
Maartens looked at him, his expression a query. "Th'an'ya? Who's Th'an'ya?"
"Yes." The High Lord answered McReynolds. "si Th'an'ya is lost in the Valley."
"Who the hell's Th'an'ya? McReynolds, you've been holding out on me."
"You'd never believe it, Captain. I didn't believe it until I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"Ch'k'te's mate. She was a powerful Sensitive, and her spirit—her hsi . . .?" He glanced at the High Lord for a moment, seeking confirmation.
The High Lord inclined her head.
"Her hsi got into Jackie somehow. She's Jackie's—I don't know—advisor or guide or something."
"Got 'into' her?"
"Into her mind. Double occupancy. Jackie made Th'an'ya appear like a 3-V projection aboard the Fair Damsel, just before she went aboard Crossover Station with Ch'k'te."
"If she's gone, does that mean the aliens have taken over her mind?"
Both humans turned to look at the High Lord, as if expecting an answer.
"It is in the talon of esLi now," the High Lord said. "She stands before the Fortress of Despite," she repeated.
"Has she been taken, damn it?" McReynolds stood, causing the High Lord to lean backward. Almost too fast to see it, another zor was standing before him with chya drawn and pointed toward his chest. McReynolds didn't move, not counting on his own reflexes to get him out of the way of being skewered, but his hands had formed fists. "Tell me what it means. Explain it to me. Has she been taken?"
"I cannot answer."
"You can answer! Tell me, High Lord. Tell me."
"Sit down, McReynolds," Maartens said, looking at his human companion and then at the zor guard, who stood ready to defend the High Lord.
"No." McReynolds didn't flinch. "No, I won't sit down, Captain. We're here now at the center of things, with the High Lord. The new High Lord. All the answers we're ever going to get are available now, if we can just come up with the right questions.
"I don't know anything about fortresses, or stairs, or swords, or Qu'u, really. All I know is that someone I care about has been left alone to follow a quest shaped by dreams of madness, and now she's alone. If she's alone, then something's happened to her mind. Has she been taken by the aliens?
"And if so, is it over? Everything we've seen—the destruction of the zor flagship, all of it—does it all amount to nothing?"
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, the High Lord spoke. "My dreams tell me that se Jackie knows the secret to resisting the esGa'uYal. She has not been taken, but she must still confront the Deceiver. esLi alone knows the outcome."
"The dice haven't been rolled yet?" McReynolds asked.
The High Lord looked at McReynolds and then had a brief exchange in the Highspeech with another zor.
"
No. The confrontation has not yet occurred."
"Will you know what happens?"
"I expect so. It is imminent, and we will know."
"Well." McReynolds took a step backward, and settled back down into his chair. "I guess we'll just wait."
Owen Garrett was en route to the zor homeworld as well. His uniform jacket had brand-new lieutenant-commander's shoulderboards on it—a field promotion awarded him by Admiral Hsien for having recaptured the Negri Sembilan. Garrett was not the only veteran of the Negri to have received a promotion for his efforts, but he was the only one on his way to Zor'a.
Going to the zor Core Stars hadn't been his idea. Given the choice, he would rather have gone back to Green Squadron aboard Duc d'Enghien; it had been his home for most of the time he'd been in His Majesty's Service. After Center and the wild ride as commander of the Negri, it would've been something comfortable and familiar.
But it wasn't to be. Captain MacEwan had told him while they drank two-hundred-year-old whiskey in her ready-room: There weren't going to be any more missions in Green Five.
"It's the only thing I've ever really done, Captain," he'd protested, when she broke the news to him.
"It's off-limits now, Owen," she had said. "The last thing we need, after all you've been through, is for you to get turned into plasma. You have some sort of skill." She held her tumbler up to the light, casting reflections on the table. Owen reached for the bottle; Barbara took it up first and poured him another drink. "What's it like? What does it feel like?"
"Seeing an alien? It's . . . hard to describe. It's as if everything stops: all the sound, all the movement; it's all damped down and quiet. And all of a sudden I can see." He drank the glass dry.
"How does it come about? Is there something that sets it off?"
"No . . . Yes. There is." They killed each other: Aaron Schoenfeld, Devra Sidra, Steve Leung, Anne Khalid, Gary Cox. He remembered it, and he felt his anger grow.
Suddenly it was interrupted; Barbara MacEwan was carefully prying his fingers off the glass he was clenching.
"These tumblers have been in my family for six centuries. Do you realize how many MacEwan ghosts would be kicking my ass all over the Solar Empire if I let you break one?" she said. "Now. What sets it off?"
The Dark Ascent Page 16
