THE DARK PATH
BY WALTER H. HUNT
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE DARK PATH
Copyright © 2003 by Walter H. Hunt
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Brian M. Thomsen
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 0-765-34564-1 EAN 978-0765-34564-6
eISBN: 978-1-61824-895-4
First edition: February 2003
First mass market edition: August 2004
Printed in the United States of America
0987654321
Digital Edition by Baen Books
http://www.baen.com
I dedicate this book to four ladies in my life: my dear wife and Bright Wings, Lisa; my daughter, Aline; and my maternal aunts, Gloria and Civita, who have been great supporters and good friends for many years. I hope you find Jackie to your liking.
Thanks to Brian Thomsen for being a great editor and to Don Maass for being a great agent. The best is yet to come.
saShrne'e
Pulling Aside the Shroud
part one
Chapter 1
In the dream he saw a battered landscape marred by battle just beyond the brow of the hill. A pall of gritty smoke drifted through the air near where he crouched. He could hear the cries of the wounded and smell the stench of war: blood and fire and death.
He looked at himself, at the ancient ceremonial sword hanging loosely in a scabbard at his waist. His legs were young and strong, not old and withered; it reinforced the dream-state, making him even more aware of it—but the feeling! He had forgotten what it was like to be young.
The thrill of pleasure from that sensation washed away as, in the dream, he realized where his hsi had been taken.
This is the Plain of Despite, he told himself as an explosion shuddered through the berm.
The Plain of Despite: where the hero Qu'u had gone to acquire the gyaryu he now wore, to face anGa'e'ren and perform the Lament of the Peak. His familiarity with the legend and the sure knowledge of the symbolic significance of this mental construct sent a chill down his spine.
He willed himself to scramble along the hillside, keeping his head down. Dream-constructs or not, his legs held him up as he made footholds. Still, the activity was unfamiliar and almost alien to him after being an invalid for so long.
He reached the end of the low ridge and came to a wide-open area with large standing boulders. Beyond, the land seemed to slope down to a wide valley. The whole scene was lit eerily by flashes of lightning: or was it artillery?
Beyond the valley was a huge blue-black façade extending outward as wide and as high as he could see. With an enormous effort of will, he let his eyes travel upward until he was craning his neck. At an impossible distance he could make out a fortress of some sort, a sprawling structure with turrets and outbuildings.
The Icewall: the Fortress of Despite.
At least he could look up. Only heroes could raise their eyes on the Plain of Despite.
Your imagination is going to kill you, old man, he told himself, but it didn't seem to reassure him. This was no dream of his own imagination; even he could not conjure up the Plain of Despite, the Icewall and the Fortress . . . at least not in such detail.
It was the sword sending his hsi this way. You accepted it, he told himself.
It was a shNa'es'ri, even if it seemed inevitable.
Sixty years ago the gyaryu, the zor sword of state, had been offered to him by the High Lord. He had taken it just as the Admiral had taken it before him. He knew what that meant. He knew what this meant as well.
He walked carefully between the boulders, the gyaryu before him. It felt like a live thing in his hands, snarling at the place it found itself. The valley he entered was shrouded in fog. It was a L'le, though it was more spread out, more like a human than a zor settlement. There were People there walking or flying, all but oblivious to his passing. As he came close, their wings often seemed to move slightly, as if forming a half-forgotten pattern of deference or respect. In most cases, however, the wing-positions conveyed nothing but despair.
The closer he came to the center of the L'le, the fewer active zor he saw. Instead he saw them frozen in position, like statues or grotesque chess-pieces, pinned in place, lifeless.
The Valley of Lost Souls, he thought.
At the far edge of the valley the settlement ended in the dark, blank face of the Icewall. He could make out the Perilous Stair now, a climbing/flying path that led eventually to the Fortress. A zor stood at the base of the Stair with its face turned away, wings placed in a pattern of respect.
As he approached, the zor turned to face him. He stopped suddenly as he recognized the human head atop the zor body.
"Marc?"
"A long time, Sergei," the Marc Hudson-zor said, the crooked smile sneaking onto his face just as Sergei remembered it. The wings assumed a posture of deference. "You look good."
"So do you, for someone who's been dead as long as you have."
"How long has it been?"
"Thirty years," Sergei said, looking away. "I spoke at your funeral. You outlived most of us—Bert, Uwe, even Alyne."
"Alyne." A ripple of affection found its way into the Hudson-zor's wings. Hearing Marc speak his late wife's name chilled Sergei.
"Why am I here, Marc?"
"esLi wills it. Or do you want the real answer?" The Hudson-zor smiled again.
"The real answer."
"The real answer is . . . what has been foreseen is about to begin. The flight has been chosen and the decision is made."
"Do I have to climb that?" Sergei asked, gesturing toward the Perilous Stair behind the Hudson-zor.
"That is for another to ascend," the Hudson-zor said. "It is a shNa'es'ri for that person, not for you."
"What does esLi will for me, then?"
"What do you think?"
"I think . . . that the burden of the sword is great. I have carried it since the Admiral died. I'm not sure that I can accomplish this a'Li'e're, my old friend. I have chosen the flight, but I don't know if my wings can carry me where it leads."
"They carried you here," the Hudson-zor said, gesturing.
Sergei looked at where he pointed, and saw his own wings, formed in the Posture of the Enfolding Protection of esLi.
"enGa'e'esLi," Sergei said to himself, or perhaps to the Hudson-zor, naming the wing-position.
"esLiHeYar, old friend," the Hudson-zor said, and the iridescent fog of the Valley of Lost Souls drifted between them, obscuring the Icewall and the Perilous Stair and the Hudson-zor last of all.
***
The captain of His Imperial Majesty's ship Cincinnatus had tactfully and politely withdrawn after exchanging courtesies with his distinguished passengers, leaving Sergei Torrijos, the Gyaryu'har of the High Nest and Admiral Horace Tolliver of the Imperial Navy, to take their breakfast alone in the captain's mess.
Sergei carefully removed the peel from an orange while watching Horace Tolliver push food around on his plate.
"Another sleepless night, Horace?" he asked.
Tolliver rubbed his neck with the palm of his hand. "How anyone sleeps aboard these ships, I'll never know. I just can't get used to it." He set the fork on the table with military precision. "How about you? You're a long way from your garden in esYen."
"Slept like the dead," Sergei answered, though the echoes of the Plain of Despite still haunted him. "It's
about time you woke up."
"I didn't realize that my sleeping cycles were of any interest to you. Especially since you've done your best to avoid me during the entire trip."
The older man coasted his chair to a side table and turned. His wrinkled face was wry and amused. "Not at all, not at all, Horace. I've been meaning to corner you since I came aboard, but I've been kept busy by my handlers."
"All right, then." Horace Tolliver stood and adjusted his uniform in a mirror. "To what do I owe the honor of a visit by the Gyaryu'har?"
"Curiosity. And friendship. Hands across the water and all. Remember, I was an officer in His Majesty's Navy once . . . long ago."
"Long ago. It was a different navy eighty-five years ago."
The old man looked up, the pain of remembrance crossing his face. "Has it been that long? Eighty-five years. You weren't even born."
"But you digress." Horace looked annoyed as he turned from the mirror and sat down. "All right. Tell me how I can help you with your problem."
"Has it occurred to you that there must be a mighty important reason for His Majesty to send you out personally to inspect a border naval base? Especially when accompanied by an official"—he tapped the sword lying across his lap—"representative of the High Nest?"
"Cicero isn't just a 'border naval base.' It's the biggest and most important border base of the Solar Empire."
"But it's still at the border. It's at the boundary of—presumably—uninhabited space."
" 'Presumably'?"
"You certainly don't have to be coy with me. I've read the reports on the disappearance of the Negri Sembilan and the Gustav Adolf II."
"Those were at the highest clearance—"
"You seem to forget that your government and mine are allies. An official of the High Nest—especially the Gyaryu'har—is privy to such documents.
"In all fairness, Horace, we'd conclude that the threat is nothing more serious than pirates, operating outside the Empire somewhere. I'm sure the CO at Cicero—Laperriere, I believe her name is?—is competent enough to conduct a sweep of the area, root out the pirates and knock them out. So why send out the brass to conduct an inspection? Are we there to see if she does it right?"
Horace crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"It's really very simple, Horace. The Admiralty suspects that something is wrong and plucked you from your desk and me from my garden to find out what the hell it is."
"I see. Why haven't I been told about this?"
"You are being told, Horace. The fact of this excursion is your briefing, and actions speak louder than words. Especially in this case."
"Twaddle." The admiral felt particularly good about telling someone Sergei's age that what he'd just said was "twaddle." He savored it for a moment before continuing. "The Admiralty is expecting a report on the whereabouts of its two missing ships. They will have it, because I intend to find them."
"You . . . what?"
"I have no intention of sitting on my ass and waiting for them to turn up by themselves. That is why the Admiralty is sending a flag admiral to Cicero."
"You're a staff officer, Horace, not a—"
"I am an admiral in His Majesty's Fleet, you may recall. I have a commission and active-duty experience. If Cicero's CO is competent, then no action will be necessary. If she is queasy about taking charge—"
"That," the old man interrupted, "is about the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say. Or ever heard of you having said, for that matter. Border commanders don't get 'queasy' about taking actions against pirates or anyone else. You know damn well there's more to this."
Sergei pushed his chair into motion, moving it toward the door. "Of course," he said, turning at the door with a wry smile, "at my age, you get to say things like that. See you on deck." He coasted through the door, which slid shut behind him. The admiral sat, somewhat taken aback by the way the conversation had ended, which was nearly as abrupt as the way it had begun.
There goes a strange old man, Tolliver thought to himself. He doesn't even think like a human anymore.
But after eighty-five years in alien space, carrying the legacy—and the sword of state—of one of the greatest villains in human history—why should that come as a surprise?
What sort of man could have followed Admiral Marais in his war of destruction? What sort of man had Sergei Torrijos been when he was young? It was hardly more than a speculative, academic question now. Admiral Tolliver stood up, picked up his jacket and walked out of his quarters.
***
20 September 2396
Open Channels TIN/SRO/ADR/CIC
FROM: R ADM CESAR HSIEN, ADRIANOPLE, FOR ADMIRALTY HQ TERRA
TO: CDRE JACQUELINE LAPERRIERE IN, CO/CICERO NAVAL BASE
By order of His Imperial Highness you will accommodate and welcome Inspector-General Horace Tolliver, R Adm ISN, and his escort, Gyaryu'har Sergei Torrijos, representing High Lord Ke'erl HeYen of the High Nest. It is expected that you will make Adm. Tolliver and especially Mr. Torrijos comfortable during their inspection tour. Itinerary and schedule are in the attached vidrecs.
EOT
20 September 2396
Open Channels TIN/SRO/ADR/CIC
FROM: R ADM HORACE A TOLLIVER, INSPECTOR-GENERAL
TO: CDRE JACQUELINE LAPERRIERE IN, CO / CICERO NAVAL BASE
Dear Commodore Laperriere:
I am looking forward to visiting the Cicero facility. As a courtesy to the High Lord, I will be accompanied by a special envoy, High Nest representative Sergei Torrijos. Though this circumstance will make the inspection tour somewhat unusual in nature, I am sure you will be able to conduct your command in the normal manner with the minimum of dislocation. If there is anything my office can do to help this effort, feel free to contact me.
Tolliver RAdm ISN
***
Five Vindicator aircraft gathered speed and gained altitude rapidly, leaving the Cicero landing-field behind. The rising sun, pale and orange against the horizon, dappled their wings as they flew free. Their afterburners fired as they rocketed through the upper atmosphere.
Lieutenant John Maisel, Officer of the Watch, turned away from the receding craft to look at the reflection of his commanding officer in the glass of the control-tower viewport. She looked tired and worn; he wondered to himself why she was up at 0600 to watch a routine CAP flight take off.
"Wing Four away, ma'am," he said, turning to face her.
"Very good, Lieutenant."
"Your orders, ma'am?"
"None. Maintain General Quarters until further notice, Lieutenant."
"Aye-aye, ma'am." He turned once again to watch the points of light vanish in the distance. When he glanced over his shoulder again, the commodore was gone.
***
Commodore Jacqueline Laperriere—"Jackie" to those few friends close enough to call her by name and not by rank—walked slowly along the glassed-in walkway that led from the control tower to the Admiralty building. To someone less tired or less burdened, the view of the great naval spaceport would have seemed stupendous. It hardly captured her attention as she stopped to watch the flurry of activity as the next wing of fighters prepared to take to the air.
She knew every detail of the operation; it never left her—a conditioned response, like the reflex actions that made a good fighter pilot. She had been a good pilot years ago, before she had been given a starship to command. Somehow the thrill of piloting a combat aerospace craft still outweighed the skill to use the firepower and mobility of a ship-of-the-line; yet both were behind her now. As a commodore in His Majesty's Fleet her post was behind a desk in a naval base.
Jackie watched Cicero's K6 sun climb higher in the sky. But she wasn't feeling resentment or even regret this morning: It was outweighed by fatigue resulting from the last thirty-six hours she had spent prowling her base. She had walked kilometers along corridors and across the high-impact tarmac, met with subordinate officers and conducted snap inspections of facilities and equipment
—all in preparation for the arrival of the Inspector-General, Rear Admiral Horace Tolliver. To the naval base personnel it wasn't a particularly important visit: It wasn't the first time Cicero had been given over to full-dress inspection, and it wouldn't be the last. She had heard this idea repeated any number of times in the last few days—groundhog, pencil-pushing admirals were nothing to be concerned about.
Some of her senior officers—years older and frozen in their positions by choice or circumstance—had taken her to dinner at the Officers' Club four days ago and had tried their best to convince her not to worry about the admiral's inspection while trying also to drink her under the table. She smiled at this memory, remembering the outcome. One of the first things an officer learns is how to drink in moderation, and she'd held up her end in accordance with the best traditions of the Service.
Still, she knew there was something serious going on—it took more than whimsy to bring an old bird like Tolliver, the epitome of a staff officer, so close to the edge of Imperial space. What it meant was that someone at Admiralty had taken notice of the events of the past few weeks—the disappearance of two Exploration Service vessels.
The end result was that the Admiralty considered it worth their attention, and had dispatched the man for the job. Tolliver was steeped in nepotism, the grandson and great-grandson of Imperial prime ministers. He was probably crafty enough to know if he was being deceived, but little enough of a soldier to avoid independent action. It was the way they bred admirals these days, ever since the zor wars and Admiral Marais.
So Tolliver would come out to Cicero, conduct his inspection and deliver some sort of instructions. Official orders were couched in military legalese; real instructions would be conveyed by a cipher like Tolliver. She wasn't sure of the details, but it seemed likely that the orders would be something like, Solve this problem, or we'll ship you somewhere quiet . . . like Pergamum. A naval base halfway between the Solar Empire and its loyal ally, the High Nest, Pergamum was about as quiet a posting as you could get. It was also the dead end for a naval career.
The Dark Path Page 1
