
<#FROWN:M01\>
Chapter Twenty-eight
"Do We See This?" (part II)
Friday, July 22, 2059-7:30 A.M.
Crystal and SJ hovered about, caring for Mary-em and encouraging her. "Got to be careful," Crystal said soberly. "After all, you're climbing for two."
"Hee, hee," Mary-em growled, fingering her belt knife. The very worst part, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of her mind, is that you love it.
SJ soberly triple-checked both lines, Poule's and Clavell's. He studied the faulty epoxy weld while cursing most inventively. Just for safety, he disassembled and reassembled the Spiders, checking every component three times.
Mary-em sat back, doing her best to project a maternal glow. Not a difficult task - her tummy was, after all, emitting a soft and lovely radiance that intermittently took the shape of a humanoid infant.
"Hell of a woman," SJ said soberly, patting her shoulder. "Glad to have a breeder in the tribe. Now. We've got a sling rigged for you, and it should be fairly comfortable. What does it take to miscarry a godling? Don't know, don't want to find out. You're our walking talisman. Just hope you're up on your Lamaze."
While Mary-em's reply did indeed have something to do with motherhood, it could hardly have been considered complimentary to SJ.
They had rigged her a sort of basket, anchoring down one of the Spiders to act as a stable braking platform. Mary-em sat in the makeshift seat. At a signal from Poule and Clavell, they began to lower her out of the lip of the modular apartment.
This was humiliating. She had watched Clavell's free climb, and knew it would make him famous. Mary-em's descent would be laughed at - unless she played it for all it was worth. She composed herself with an aplomb worthy of a queen. The pulleys creaked, and she began her descent down the weathered face of MIMIC.
Clavell reeled Mary-em in with a coat hanger rigged to the end of a mop handle. Poule had already lifted the weather shield, and as soon as she unhooked herself from the sling she wandered back into the apartment and checked the refrigerator. Empty.
The basket went back up, and Crystal got into it, and the procedure was repeated...
Alphonse Nakagawa was the second-to-last Gamer to take the ride down; SJ worked the brake mechanism.
SJ had no one to work the brake, and that was just fine by him. He rode down on the Spider, whooping all the way, the morning desert spinning below him. It was glorious. Best of all, for the very first time, they were ahead of Bishop and Da Gurls.
Alphonse and the major braced themselves beside the front door, opened it gingerly, and peered out.
They were greeted by a strong marine smell. Faint echoes: sounds of laughter and water play. Clavell, his wrenched shoulder wrapped now, raised an eyebrow at Alphonse. "Well, Civilian, what do you think?"
"Nommo."
Clavell called Mary-em up to the front, and they formed another circle around her.
Alphonse knelt by her side. "Hail," he said, "Holy infant, holy mother." The shape of the infant reappeared.
"I'm going to be sick," Mary-em said.
The baby covered its little eyes. "I'm sleeping," it said petulantly.
"We need your help."
"I want a song. If you want my help, you be nice to me," it insisted.
Alphonse pursed his lips. "Does anyone know a lullaby?"
SJ cleared his throat and sang:
Mary had a little lamb,
Her father shot it dead.
Now Mary takes the lamb to school
Between two hunks of bread.
The infant looked at SJ with disgust. "Is that any kind of poem to tell a small, vulnerable child?"
"Mary-em. What are your views on abortion?"
She narrowed her eyes and placed her hands over her tummy. The flesh flowed around black finger bones. "Not another word, twerp."
Crystal smiled, came forward, and knelt by Mary-em, putting both hands on her stomach. And she sang, in a surprisingly clear and sweet contralto.
Oh, the queen is giving a ball today and the talking flowers are there!
We'll play croquet with guinea pigs and all the cards will stare.
A bird will be my mallet, and I will win the game!
But the queen will have my head, just the same...
After she finished, the infant rolled over and looked at her with its star-child eyes. "Insane but nice. Now. Here's what you do..."
Up in the control chamber, Doris Whitman had curled into a fetal position. Remarkably agile and limber for a woman her age, her alignment and action of limbs precisely duplicated an unborn infant's.
The DreamTime Virtual system translated every motion, every flicker of a finger, with a time lag of less than three thousandths of a second. Doris was the unborn godling, the spawn of Mary-em's loins, and her performance was flawless.
She spoke as she rolled. The DreamTime system altered her voice, raising it in register and pitch until it became a sleepy, childlike whisper.
For a moment the entire control room stopped, leaving all programs on automatic loop routines.
Doris was something very special. Her entire body arched, muscle control so complete that she could imitate weightlessness. Heavy as she was, it seemed absurd that she should move so effortlessly.
And when she finally stopped, allowing her body to rest once again, the entire control room exploded into applause.
Tony McWhirter was heavily in conference with Mitsuko Lopez, studying one of the skeletal diagrams of MIMIC.
"All right," he said. "They're all playing California Voodoo outside the boundaries. Everybody. Weird."
She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "But still playing a damn good Game," she said. "So. We have to help them get back onto the track. Start with Army/Tex-Mits."
Tony pointed, his forearm sinking into the model. "They're here on the tenth level. They've gotten around all of the traps we laid for them, but they also can't get to the Nommo. For obvious reasons, we sealed the doors and shored up the walls here and here. What do we do, and how do we keep them on camera?"
Mitsuko thought for three seconds, then pivoted and punched out a code on the main board. "Mitch Hasegawa, please report to Security."
Tony cocked his head. "I know Mitch," he said. "He's a nice guy, but don't we need someone a little higher?"
"Sometimes rank isn't as important as communication," Mitsuko said.
"You know Mitch?"
She twinkled. "He's my little brother."
Mitsuko and Mitsuo 'Mitch' Hasegawa hugged briefly, then he sat down to consider their problem.
"I can do it," he said, "but I'll have to activate some of ScanNet's maintenance relays on the tenth."
"Aren't they already on?"
"Naw. The way the system is now, it would overload. They're on manual. In fact, most monitors on the tenth have been turned over to the DreamTime system."
"So where's the security?"
"Well, we've got the entire exterior sealed, of course. We know the instant anyone moves into one of those peripheral units, let alone the wall. And then we have spot checks throughout the inner building. As soon as the whole thing is activated, we'll be able to scan you right down to the blood cells, big sister. Forget metal detectors - we'll know whether you had secret sauce on your cheeseburger."
Tony scooted forward. "Now listen to me. I need to get our Army group from here-" He indicated a sector in the tenth level that was coded blue. "- over a restraining wall and back into the Gaming area. To do that, I want to take them through a service tunnel. Here. I can guide them into it, but I don't have cameras to follow them inside. Whatever shall I do?"
Mitch tapped out commands on the main console and then grinned. "All right. We have maintenance 'bots in there. They've got cameras, of course, and some other senses, too. We'll let the 'bots follow your Gamers around. You'll have to give them one of those 'you can't see this' orders."
Tony laughed. "It's been a long time since we've had to use one of those. Can I see this maintenance unit?"
Tap tap. It looked like a crab on roller skates. It was intended to motor along a tunnel two feet in diameter, cleaning, inspecting, providing routine maintenance.
Mitsuko raised one lazy eyebrow. "How strong are those arms?"
"Exert about fifty pounds of pressure."
"How precisely controllable?"
"Very. Good for close work."
"And how resistant to damage?"
"Well..." Mitch's eyes narrowed at her. "Chi-Chi, what are you-"
"Just answer the question, little brother."
"Well, anything really valuable is inside the central casing. Pretty well shielded. The external arms are all replaceable. Maybe a thousand bucks, tops."
"And can you get a second one into the area?"
"To watch the first, right?"
She smiled expansively.
Tony was slow, but caught on. "Ah, Chi-Chi - Mitsuko, he's right..."
Her smile had broadened further. "Players aren't the only ones who can improvise."
Fast as a snake she twisted, calling, "Owen! We need some Virtual imagery here!"
In Mary-em's womb, the godling rolled back over toward them, its eyes as vast as a moonless sky. "Is there one among you who is a pathfinder? One who seeks?"
SJ came forward.
"Touch my mother's stomach."
Mary-em growled, said growl disturbing the beatific expression she had cultivated so carefully. "Watch yer hands, buster."
"Sorry. Heh heh."
"Now," the child said. "Reveal!"
A map of the entire tenth level rolled out before them like the ghost of a carpet. Their route through it was plainly mapped. A line of green dashes pointed SJ's path, and he stood - saying, "No offense, Yer Godliness" - and followed the dashes to a wall grille set too high for him to reach on tiptoe.
The major threw him a chair.
SJ tested the screws at the sides of the grille. They were fairly standard, but probably hadn't been worked since the original replacement two years earlier. SJ dug into his backpack and found a multihead screwdriver.
He hummed happily when he'd finally levered the grille free. He snapped an electric lamp headband above his visor and said, "Boost me up!" Clavell and Poule boosted him, and he eeled into the duct.
He wiggled in, elbows and knees braced against cold metal. He adjusted his virtual visor. The green dashes bobbled in the air before him.
After a half hour, SJ's back was sore and his knees and elbows were a little skinned up. He was grateful that the duct was clean. He didn't relish the notion of getting an infected cut.
Newer ducts would have rounded corners. These antique ducts were square. Steel sheeting, and maybe rivets, under new insulation. How did they clean these ducts? Did they get midgets to crawl around in here with wet rags, or what? Had the squatters managed with dirty ducts?
The other six Adventurers of the Tex-Mits/Army combine inched along behind him. SJ found himself slipping into fantasy.
Corporal Waters, at great risk to life and limb, leads the way for the major and the general, crawling across no-man's land, under barbed wire, and through a minefield under heavy machine-gun fire, to retrieve a live grenade...
A humming sound up ahead had grown steadily louder, finally crossing the threshold of his attention. Belatedly, he wondered what it was.
He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the cramped, night-dark space. He widened his flashing beam.
Nothing. From a distance throbbed the soft, regular, hushed pulse of the air-conditioning. Somehow that was a reassurance, akin to the comforting rhythm of a mother's heartbeat. The building was alive. It breathed.
He called, "Hold it!" The column behind him stopped.
Scratch scratch.
There it was again, damn it. Closer now.
He turned onto his side and held the flashlamp out ahead of him, eeling forward until he came to a branching pathway. From here he could see up, down, right, left ...
Left. The sound came from there. And now it was closer.
<#FROWN:M02\>
32.
By Phase Five there were only twenty-one left in Dekker DeWoe's class. That was no worse than was to be expected from normal attrition, but the other new fact was a lot more unpleasant. Dekker himself hat dropped to number eleven in the class standings.
That he had not expected at all. It was Ven Kupferfeld's fault, he told himself grimly. If he hadn't wasted so much time playing lovesick Romeo to Ven's bloodthirsty Juliet, he would have been right up at the top, where he belonged. But, thank God, that was over, and now he could get back to what really mattered....
It was annoying, though, to see that Ven herself was still proudly number one.
It was even more annoying to have to face the fact that he didn't stop thinking about her. He missed Ven Kupferfeld. He missed all of her; her talk, her touch, her pretty hair, her sweet, wet interiors, her perfume, her warmth beside him as they drowsed in her comfortable bed - yes, he even missed her startlingly rough-edged way of looking at the world, which was certainly improper and wrongheaded and even by any reasonable standard actually repulsive; but still her own. They had disagreed irreconcilably on some of the most fundamental questions of human values, of course. Yet even their disagreements had been interesting.
Dekker felt obscurely cheated by the way the woman kept creeping into his thoughts. It didn't seem fair. It seemed to him that the fact that they weren't lovers anymore should be easy enough to take under the circumstances. After all, he was the one who had made the decision to break it off. But it wasn't.
The good part was that Phase Five was only four weeks from Phase Six, and Phase Six would end with Dekker actually going off to tame comets for Mars - assuming he got his grades back up where they belonged, that was. He devoted himself to doing so.
What made doing that easier was that in Phase Five he was actually seeing the greening of Mars happening. Each workstation in the training room had its own simulations, two sets of them. If the student controller selected one of them he was looking at a display of the surface of the planet Mars. If he selected the other he saw a tank, like the one for the Co-Mars stations, but much smaller in scope; it showed nothing but the region around the trailing segment of Mars's orbit. The rest of the solar system didn't matter. Apart from the odd ship in nearby space, the orbiter controllers only cared about Mars, its moons, the three Mars orbiters... and the string of trailing dots that were comets - all yellow now - that had been handed over to the orbiting stations for their final creeping approach toward impact.
The instructor for Phase Five was a Martian named Merike Chophard. "Chop-hard," Dekker said the first time he talked to him, but the teacher corrected him amiably enough. "It's 'choe-fard,'" he said; but, however he pronounced his name, Dekker was pleased to have him there. Chophard was the first Martian Dekker had seen to occupy a position of authority in this enterprise devoted to Mars's regeneration. Well, of some authority - as much as a teacher ever had - at least it proved that Martians weren't always restricted to the very bottom of the totem pole in this Earthie-dominated place.
At the first session Chophard started by sending all the class to workstations - "Any ones you like. Just sit down, and familiarize yourself with the controls." There wasn't much competition for seats. With the class now attrited down to the mere twenty-one survivors, they filled hardly half the available spaces.
The most demanding part of the job was the part shown in the orbit simulation; that was where the final approach trajectory was shaped, and where the last-minute work of fracturing the huge comet body into manageable bits took place.
It wasn't the part that most fascinated Dekker DeWoe, though. When time permitted he delighted in switching the view from the incomings to the Martian surface itself. The view was marvelous. The Mars-orbit stations were in five-hour orbits, circling even closer to the planet than the nearer of its two little moons, and in the simulation Dekker could see the Martian landscape sliding slowly by beneath him. He could identify the familiar geography easily enough, regardless of whether it was day or night below; the station's sensors were not limited to visible light. He was even able to pick out the sites of individual demes, though the buildings themselves were too tiny to be visible in the simulation's coarse resolution; he caught his breath when he first saw the mountain on whose slope Sagdayev rested come up over the horizon toward him.
And he saw comet strikes actually happening. Well, not actually 'actual.' Like everything else in the training displays they were either simulated or recorded from the real events that had already taken place, but no less thrilling for that. He saw two of them close together in one session, one just inside the dawn line, the other coming down eight hundred kilometers away and half an hour later. He saw the gases boil up from each of the fifty or sixty impact points that came from the fragments of each strike.
The gases formed instant mushroom clouds, towering into the sky... and, Dekker realized with a thrill, the clouds were lingering. He didn't have Ven Kupferfeld anymore, but he had something that was far more important: Mars was beginning to come to life.
When he got back to his quarters that night there were two messages waiting for him. He played the picmail message first. Surprisingly, it was from his old Nairobi classmate, Walter Ngemba.
It was odd, Dekker thought, that Ngemba had sent him a recorded visual message instead of just calling him up. Because of the time difference? Surely not simply to save the extra cost of a two-way. When the Kenyan's image flashed on the screen Walter didn't look any different - same smart, well-pressed shirt and shorts, same carefully coiffed hair, same friendly smile - but the smile faded as he began to speak: "Dekker, my friend, I am sorry to say that I won't be coming to join you in Denver after all. On my birthday I told my father of my plan to apply for Oort training. He asked me to wait until he could make some inquiries, and I did. When his replies came he invited me into his study and let me read the screen.
"Dekker, I'm afraid that there would be no point in my applying for the course. I am not permitted to say what intelligence agency my father consulted, but I am convinced their report is quite reliable. It stated that there is definitely a decreasing need for the terraforming of Mars, because the farm products that would justify it can be produced more quickly and cheaply in other ways - I suppose, because of the new farm habitats that the Japanese are building - and it said that the entire project was going to be under review within the next few months. I'm afraid that means cancellation. Under the circumstances, my father said, it made no sense for me to apply. I was forced to agree. So, sadly, I will not see you there. But, Dekker, please remember that if the training center closes you are always welcome at our farm."
When the message was over Dekker stared at the blank screen. At least, he thought, that explained Walter's using picmail; he hadn't wanted Dekker to be asking questions about these 'intelligence' sources. But how reliable were they?
Dekker glanced up as he caught a flicker of motion at the door to Toro Tanabe's room. The Japanese was standing there, looking guilty. He coughed apologetically when he saw Dekker's accusing look. "Please excuse me, DeWoe. I didn't intend to eavesdrop."
"But you did."
"I heard, yes." He hesitated, then added quickly, "I think it is unfair of this African person to blame the Japanese; we are not alone in this, you know."
"But your own father put up the money for the habitats, didn't he?"
"He invested heavily in them, yes," Tanabe admitted. "Please remember that my father is a businessman. In business it is necessary to be practical. The habitats can be producing crops in large quantity in less than ten years - and how long would it be for Mars? Another thirty or forty years at best. So I fear there may be some truth to these reports, though I would not say it is definite that the project will necessarily be canceled.... But, Dekker," he added pleadingly, "we Japanese are not all unwilling to help your planet. I don't want it canceled, either. After all, I'm here."
He didn't wait for an answer, but retreated into his room and closed the door. A moment later he came out again, his coat over his arm, and left the apartment without speaking again to Dekker.
Dekker sighed. Well, he thought, he had heard plenty of rumors already about the project being in danger. Assuming they were true, what could he do about it? No more than he was doing already: Keep on plugging away, and hope the rumors turned out to be wrong.... Then he remembered the other message. This one was voicemail and - he saw with a quick uplift - from his mother.
He wished he could see her face, for Gerti DeWoe sounded tired as she spoke. "I've got good news and bad news. The good news is that maybe I'll see you soon, Dek, because I have to go to Earth for a meeting about the Bonds. The bad news is that I have to. The Commons appointed me. The Earthies are being bitchy about the next issue. They want to renegotiate the terms, and they're getting really tough about it. As long as I'm coming, though, I'm going to try to steal a little time for myself and make it to your graduation - so there's a silver lining, anyway."
That was all.
After a moment Dekker turned off the screen, stood up, washed his face, and left for the mess hall. He went alone. The fact that Toro Tanabe had left without waiting for him was all right with Dekker. He didn't much want to talk to Tanabe just then. He wanted to sort out his thoughts on his own.
The thoughts were not joyous. It was certainly a real pleasure to think that Gerti DeWoe might be there soon - maybe even to watch him graduate? - but the rest of the thoughts that crowded through his mind were a lot less pleasing. Renegotiate the terms! But there was simply nothing more to give; the Earthies had the next six generations of Martians mortgaged already! He wished his mother were there already so he could talk them over with her. Or with his father. Or even - running through the list of people he would have liked to talk to - with Ven Kupferfeld. She probably would know no more fact than he did, but at least she might have been able to help him understand what was behind all this, even if only to tell him what the Earthies really wanted. They already had everything. Couldn't they spare a little assistance for their fellow humans on Mars?
Just asking the question gave Dekker the answer. He knew exactly what Ven would have said, and that she would have been laughing at him as she said it. What the Earthies wanted was undoubtedly what Earthies always seemed to want. They wanted more.
He had no appetite, but he collected a tray of food at the mess hall counter. When he sat down in the corner of the room where his class usually assembled, he wondered if he should talk to any of them about his questions.
The opportunity for that wasn't there, though.
<#FROWN:M03\>
TEN
Captain's Log, Stardate 8492.5:
Yet another of those mysterious messages from the Empire has been passed on by Admiral Cartwright. The Probe has done something to rattle the Interim Government's cage, but our source apparently isn't privy to the details. He knows only - or is telling us only - that there have been several high-priority and high-security exchanges with a ship called the Azmuth, whose last known coordinates would put it very close to Federation projections of the Probe's course into Romulan territory.
Meanwhile, Spock has completed a first run through the Exodus Hall data, but we are no closer to learning where the Erisians went - or even if they went anywhere - than we were before Temaris. At last count, just over a thousand of the ten thousand sets of coordinates have been matched with known objects, including twenty-three supernova remnants, roughly five hundred novas, and an equal number of particularly violent flare stars. As Dr. McCoy remarked, "If these are the stars the Erisians migrated to, they should have fired their travel agent." The theory most often heard is that the coordinates have nothing to do with where the Erisians went but were part of some long-term study and research program involving unstable stars. No one, however, has come up with a convincing reason for the coordinates and the star map to be virtually enshrined in a series of 'museums' on every known Erisian world.
Of most immediate concern, however, are the diplomatic developments. After almost three days of silence - except for his stony-faced 'socializing' at the Galtizh-hosted reception yesterday evening and his grudgingly retracted 'demands' about the Exodus Hall crystal - Tiam has suddenly requested a second meeting with Ambassador Riley. Whether or not his request has anything to do with the crystal or with the Probe's alleged activity - or even with its alleged existence - will presumably become clear at the meeting, set for 1400 hours. Another puzzle is the 'informal' meeting Commander Hiran has requested with me, not on either the Galtizh or the Enterprise but on Temaris. It, too, is scheduled for 1400 hours.
"You will not be in attendance, then, Captain Kirk?"
Tiam, flanked by only two of his aides as he stepped down from the transporter platform, managed a hurt look, though it was undercut by the gleam in his eyes. Something, Kirk thought, has certainly cheered him up since last night.
"I'm afraid not, Ambassador. Business with Commander Hiran."
A millisecond scowl flickered across Tiam's face. "I see." He turned and looked back at Kirk as the ensigns assigned to escort him and his aides to the conference stepped forward. "I would remind you - as I have already reminded Commander Hiran - that Ambassador Riley and I are the only official representatives of our governments."
"I'll remember, Ambassador. I wouldn't have it any other way." And I'm glad to see that it wasn't your idea for Hiran to have another chat with me.
"I am pleased to hear you say that, Captain." There was a faint emphasis that said, at least to Kirk, that the reminder to Hiran had been less well received.
"Ready, Captain," the transporter tech informed him.
"Ready, Ensign," Kirk responded, centering himself on a transporter circle. Moments later, the transporter's energy field gripped him and the Enterprise flashed out of existence, replaced by the ruins of Temaris Four.
Hiran was waiting, unsmiling, his eyes fixed on Exodus Hall a dozen meters away.
"Welcome again to Temaris Four, Captain Kirk. Has the diplomacy begun?"
"It will shortly. Or something will begin shortly. It could be interesting to see just what it is."
Hiran's smile returned briefly. "May I assume Ambassador Tiam warned you of the dangers of impersonating a diplomat? Not that it has kept him from attempting it."
Kirk laughed. "He 'reminded' me that neither you nor I am an 'official' representative."
"More's the pity," Hiran said, sobering and then falling silent, leaving Kirk to wonder what Romulan saying could have caused that particular Earth human colloquialism to emerge from the translator. He was about to speak when the Romulan continued abruptly.
"What do you know of Kalis Three, Federation captain?"
Kirk masked his surprise with a frown. "I know it was not one of the Empire's finer hours. Why do you ask?"
The Romulan remained silent for several seconds. Finally, he pulled himself even more stiffly erect than his normal stance held him. "I am starting to think that this entire conference is also not one of our finer hours, as you put it." he said.
Another surprise, masked by a deeper frown. "Would you mind establishing some kind of connection between your last two utterances, Commander?"
A faint smile touched the corners of Hiran's mouth and vanished. "That is good, Federation captain. You are careful with your words. You ask me to explain. You do not deny knowledge of what that explanation might be."
"And if I did?"
"I would not openly question you."
Kirk nodded. "You are careful as well, Commander Hiran. However, since you initiated both this meeting and this conversation ..."
"I assume you are aware of your Dr. Benar's experience on Kalis Three."
"I am. I was given to understand the opportunity to work here on Temaris was intended as a form of reparation."
"As was I. As were many others."
"But ...?" Kirk prompted when Hiran again fell silent.
"Were you also aware that the one who must work closest with Dr. Benar is the brother of the one who was in command on Kalis Three?"
"Dajan, yes, brother to Reelan. But I learned of it only two days ago."
"How did you acquire that knowledge, Federation captain?"
"How did you acquire it, Commander? Or have you known all along?"
"No! If I had ..." Hiran broke off sharply, shaking his head. "I would like to think I would have done as I am doing now."
"I have no wish to offend you, Commander," Kirk said. "I seek only information."
"You have not offended me, Captain. In this instance, I am offended only by the actions of my own people. How did you learn of this - two days ago, you said?"
"From Dajan and Dr. Benar themselves."
"They know, then?"
"Since just before they entered the Exodus Hall."
"And yet they still work together?"
"There are some rough moments when each discovered who the other was, but they agreed that they couldn't let it stand in the way of continuing their work on Temaris. If anything, they're working more quickly and more efficiently now than before."
Hiran's eyes widened in surprise, but then comprehension came. "Yes, of course. If their selection was an attempt to sabotage this conference, then there will almost certainly be other attempts - attempts that could succeed and bring an end not only to the conference but to the dig as well."
"Exactly," Kirk acknowledged. "In fact, I suspect that was one of the reasons Dajan agreed so quickly to allow the crystal to be brought to the Enterprise for analysis."
Hiran almost laughed. "Then their learning the truth has already proven useful. The information in the crystal has been extracted without damage, and Tiam was driven wild."
"He did seem somewhat perturbed," Kirk admitted. "But tell me, Commander, do you have any idea why he suddenly decided to demand a second meeting? Has he decided to admit that the Probe actually does exist?"
"I am not privy to his thoughts, nor to his private communications with the Citadel. I only know that he has engaged in a number of the latter."
Probably receiving information similar to what the Federation obtained from their so-far-secret informant, Kirk thought, and for a moment he considered confiding in the Romulan commander. But no, this was not his secret alone but the Federation's, and no matter how much his instinct told him that Hiran could be trusted, it would be treasonous foolishness to follow through on that instinct. Even if Hiran himself could be totally trusted, there were obviously others on board the Galtizh who could not. And whoever it was in the Empire who was risking his life to get these messages out, he didn't need some starship captain he'd never heard of going fuzzy-minded and lowering his odds of survival even further.
"No matter," Kirk said. "We'll know soon enough. In the meantime, Commander, do you have any thoughts as to what other strings these would-be saboteurs might have to their bow?"
"Tiam, of course."
"Of course. Is he a dupe, like Dajan appears to be, or a conspirator?"
"Dupe, I suspect, although that might be wishful thinking. His background, as given to me, at any rate, was that of a midlevel bureaucrat of no particular importance."
Kirk nodded. "Dajan said much the same. My own guess would be that Tiam was picked primarily because of his marriage to Dajan's sister. He was promoted for no discernible reason, just as Dajan and Jandra were 'rehabilitated' for no discernible reason."
"Other than their close relationship to Reelan and Kalis Three."
"Exactly," Kirk agreed. "Is there any way you could learn who recommended Tiam for the job?"
Hiran frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps, but not without calls to the Citadel that would doubtless raise suspicions."
"Then don't make them," Kirk said flatly. The last thing I need, Kirk thought, is to lose the one Romulan in authority here who can be trusted, even provisionally. "If you're so inclined, do some discreet checking when this is over and you're back home."
"I will, Federation captain, for all the good it will do." Hiran smiled. "But for now, before the sabotage is complete, perhaps I can deliver the tour of the Galtizh that I promised."
"I would be honored, Romulan commander," Kirk said, returning the smile.
"Then we had best waste no more time," Hiran said, reaching for his communicator.
For the first time since the mission had begun, the commander - he found it hard to think of himself as anything else, despite Hiran's assumption of the title for this mission - was pleased.
Above, in the Enterprise, the 'peace' conference - which in any sane universe would never have begun - would be ended as soon as that buffoon Tiam and the Federation ambassador completed their meaningless ritual. It was here, on Temaris, that the real work would be done. Hiran would get his due, as would his opposite number from the Federation.
And their deaths would ensure that such dangerous foolishness would not soon be repeated.
The traitors - 'reformers,' they called themselves! - who had tricked their way into power would be out within days, if not hours, never to return. If the Federation could not be convinced that their legendary Captain Kirk had murdered a Romulan in cold blood, what matter? It was in the Empire where it needed to be believed, and in the Empire, treachery and Federation were virtually synonymous. There would be few who would not accept unquestioningly that the Federation had tricked that spacegoing behemoth into slaughtering thousands of Romulans on Wlaariivi. Nor would they doubt that a Federation starship captain, when confronted with irrefutable evidence of his own role in that treachery, would kill the Romulan commander who brought that evidence to him. If necessary, there would be ample testimony by civilian witnesses to the 'collusion' the two had engaged in prior to their falling out, while he himself could testify to the anger and disillusionment felt by the naively reform-minded Hiran when the evidence of the Federation captain's deceit forced him to acknowledge his own gullibility. This scenario, which had come to him almost the moment news of Wlaariivi had reached him, would be at least as effective as any of the earlier ones he had considered and far more satisfying.
But where was Jutak? He looked around, suddenly uneasy for the first time. Hiran and Kirk had been talking for minutes, and Jutak had still not returned with the phaser rifle he had earlier concealed in the ruins. He fingered his own phaser and wondered if it would serve in the event that Jutak had met with unforeseen problems.
<#FROWN:M04\>
Chapter 1
Even death will not release you.
An expression of the
Los Angeles Science
Fiction Society, ca. 1949
Jay Omega decided to wait until the shouting stopped before he knocked. Against his better judgment he had left the happy anarchy of the Electrical Engineering building and ventured into the English department to see if Marion wanted to go to dinner, but the sounds coming from her office indicated that Dr. Marion Farley was otherwise engaged. The typed index card on the door announced that she had office hours from 4 to 5 P.M., so Jay assumed that she was in conference with a student. He had put his ear to her office door to see if she was nearly finished and had heard the following exchange.
"This is a world literature class, not a science fiction class!"
"But -"
"And I can't believe that you actually wrote a paper comparing Joseph Conrad to Robert Silverberg!"
"But, Dr. Farley, when I read Heart of Darkness, I recognized Downward to the Earth almost exac-"
"And you accused Joseph Conrad of plagiarism!"
Jay Omega sighed and walked away. Marion was going to be a while. He wondered how late their dinner date was likely to be. Jay Omega and Marion Farley had little in common besides the fact that they were both carbon-based life forms, but despite the differences in temperament, interests, and income, they had been a couple for two years now. The relationship began when Jay ventured into the English department with the manuscript of his first book, and Marion asked if he had a note from his adviser. He still looked young for a Ph.D., and his jeans from the tenth grade did still fit, though Marion had made him throw them away. He supposed he had changed for the better since then. Marion had once seen his high school yearbook photo and said, "You looked like a mosquito." Now he had contact lenses instead of Coke-bottle glasses, and his brown hair was cut in a longer, more flattering style. They had both blossomed after adolescence. Marion had endured high school as a fat and friendless intellectual; now she was a slender, dark-haired Ph.D. who ran in the local marathons and sparred with the women's fencing team. It was no coincidence that the poster above her desk featured The Avengers' Emma Peel, Marion's role model in adolescence.
Jay looked down at his khaki work pants and plaid shirt. He still didn't dress like the dapper young professors in English, but Marion had given up on him in that department. He didn't wear power ties, but kept her decrepit car running, which more than made up for it. Jay and Marion were in a romantic holding pattern, waiting to see if they would both get tenure so that neither would have to leave the university and start over elsewhere.
Jay ventured back to the office door. She was still at it. He sighed. If things dragged on for too long, he could always go in search of a snack machine, but since most of the English professors seemed to be on a health and fitness kick, he wasn't even sure that they had a snack machine, and if they did, it might offer such arcane items as wheat germ and carob candy bars. Long ago he decided that the English department was about as alien as anything Rolbert Silverberg could come up with. Even after several years' association with one of their assistant professors, he didn't understand their tribal customs. Or their bulletin boards. Every now and then he would come in and read the notices while he was waiting for Marion, just to see if any literary culture had worn off on him Apparently, it hadn't.
"WARREN WRITES BETTER THAN ANNE."
Now what did that mean? Jay Omegy turned to a pink-haired young woman in overalls who was pinning a Literary Lions notice over the campus newspaper clipping annoncing that Professor Byron Snipes had just been published in the avant-garde (which Marion said was pronounced "mimeographed") literary magazine, The Maggots Digest
Jay knew about the Literary Lions. They were a group of English instructors and other town writers who gave readings every Sunday afternoon in the New Age Caf. Marion had dragged him there once when her office mate Toni Richardson was reading from her stream-of-consciousness novel about a Labrador retriever who thought it was Virginia Woolf. Every time the dog had to go into the water to retrieve a duck, there would be pages and pages of inner dialogue over whether or not it would get back out. Jay didn't understand it at all, but everyone else had told Toni that it was very experimental and definitely not accessible. (Marion said that "experimental meant writing in the present tense, and "not accessible" meant that they didn't understand it either.)
Jay Omega's opinion was not solicited. He was the only nationally published author in town, but since he had written a science fiction novel called Bimbos of the Death Sun, he was not invited to read with the mineral water and tofu crowd at the New Age Caf. Not even for their four-dollar beans and rice fund raisers in support of El Salvador. (Or was it against support in El Salvador?) Anyway, Jay didn't remember any Literary Lions called Warren or Anne. So what was that about?
"Excuse me," he said, pointing to the hand-lettered graffiti. "Could you tell me what that means?"
The pink lady glanced at the sign. "Warren Writes Better Than Anne." She nodded, with a frosty smile. "Beatty, of course. Only they spell it differently." Seeing that he still looked blank, she explained kindly, "Warren Beatty is Shirley MacLaine's little brother."
Before he could explain that it was Anne he had never heard of, she had walked away with her sheaf of notices, and another student was tugging at his sleeve. "Dr. Mega, I'm glad I ran into you!"
The tall red-headed guy with a Starfleet patch on his jacket looked familiar. What was that kid's name? Second row, first seat in engineering fundamentals. Jay managed a feeble grin, hoping he wasn't about to be asked for a reference.
The young man set his books on top of the covered trash can and chattered on, happily unaware of his anonymity. "When I was home on spring break, I tried to buy a copy of your book for my high school physics teacher, but our local bookstore said it wasn't on their order list."<quote/
Dr. James Owens Mega - aka science fiction author Jay Omega - heaved a mighty sigh of resignation. "Did you look under G?"
"No. Is that a new one? I wanted your first book - Bimbos of the Death Sun."
"I know. It's listed under G. For Galactic Wonders #2: Bimbos of the Death Sun. The first part is the series title. Alien Books lists all their titles that way. The first one in the series is Galactic Wonders #1: Betrayal at Byzantium by Susan Shwartz." She's not happy about it either, he finished silently.
Several months earlier, when they found out about this nation-wide blunder, Marion had remarked, "This is the only book in history that requires a password in order to purchase it!"
The student was looking at him as if he were crazy. "Under G," he repeated carefully. "Uhh - I've taken some marketing courses, Dr. Mega, and I have to tell you, that doesn't sound like a good idea."
Jay Omega nodded sadly. "So my royalty statements would indicate."
It seemed to Jay Omega that he had the worst of both worlds - another reason that the English department made him uneasy. The way he figured it, an author could either go for respect in the literary world - critical reviews in prestigious journals, scholarly articles on one's works, smallprint runs at respected university presses - or he could write popular fiction and receive fan mail and big bucks. The lurid bikini-clad girl on the cover of Jay Omega's paperback original left no doubt in the English department as to which category his work fell into. They assumed that he was making a fortune, and that it was easy money.
Every time Marion talked him into attending a faculty party, one of her colleagues would sidle up to him, margarita in hand, and say, "You know, maybe during spring break I'll dash off a science fiction novel. I could use the extra cash."
Apparently they didn't intend to be insulting. They all thought that he was rich and lazy. Jay suspected that if he admitted to them how hard he worked and how little he made, they would simply replace their envy with contempt, so he left well enough alone.
The professorial misconception was that genre writing was easy and high-paying, and that anyone with scholarly training could do it in a matter of hours. Occasionally one of them tried. Jay Omega had been forced to read some of these dashed-off manuscripts, and he found them to be plodding exercises in obscurity. They sounded like dissertations. Finding excuses not to give out the name of his agent or his editor was beginning to require more creativity than his latest book. He was losing patience. Sooner or later one of them was going to sneer at him once too often, and he was going to say, "Look - if you really want a surefire scheme for cash from trash, forget genre fiction. Just write a long convoluted novel in the present tense with no quotation marks and sell it to a university press. Get your friends to write reviews of it in the MLA Journal, get tenure on your literary reputation, and then sit back for the rest of your life collecting a fat salary and teaching two classes a week."
Marion would kill him.
He decided that he'd better stop loitering in the halls of the English department, before one of them accosted him with a new plot summary. Perhaps he could write Marion a note asking her to meet him at his office.
"Ah, Dr. Mega! I've been meaning to speak to you."
Too late!
Jay Omega looked up, hoping that he wasn't about to be presented with another manuscript. To his relief he saw Erik Giles, empty-handed, beckoning from the door of his office. Professor Giles taught nineteenth- and early twentieth-century British literature, and as far as Jay knew, he wrote only for scholarly publications.
"I take it that Marion is busy," Giles was saying. "Why don't you come in for a cup of coffee, and you can keep an eye on her door." He raised one eyebrow. "Or at least monitor the noise level."
With a grin of considerable relief, Jay Omega hurried into Professor Giles' shabby, book-strewn office. Compared to the engineering offices, it was a Victorian parlor. (Marion once said that his office looked like the inside of a pinball machine.) He removed a stack of papers from the Goodwill armchair and sat down. Despite the clutter, it was a comfortable room, well suited to Giles himself. It had the same air of old, but still serviceable, and its genial mix of well-worn books and prints of English landscapes suggested an old-fashioned gentility indicative of an aging scholar. This, of course, was a carefully cultivated pose on the part of Erik Giles, and it served him very well. His Dickensian office, his rimless glasses, and his baggy cardigan sweaters tallied with everyone's expectations of a kindly but dull middle-aged professor of English; few people bothered to look beneath the facade.
Marion had found out the secret quite by accident, on her way to her science fiction class to lecture on the histore of the genre. Four minutes late as usual, she had scurried around the corner, balancing a chin-high stack of paperbacks, and crashed into Professor Giles, who was just leaving his lit class on Kipling. The collision sent the books flying. Ever the gentleman, Erik Giles had stooped to help his colleague gather up her belongings.
<#FROWN:M05\>
His Cool, Blue Skin
Caroline Spector
So much pain.
It pierces like a knife -and the blood. Nobody told me there would be so much blood.
Now the faeries come with their tiny hands, caressing my brow, saying words meant to soothe me, but I'm not comforted. The pain is relentless. I feel I'm washing away, caught in this circle of agony, the ebb and flow of my life stretched out in endless minutes of suffering.
They say it won't last much longer, but what do faeries know?
I want this to end. I cry out, and remember how it began.
It started with the storms. Terrific, pounding water crashing from the sky rocking the earth, making the world tremble. The lightning looked like huge grabbing hands and the thunder was deafening. I thought the storm lasted for days -maybe weeks. But I'm not certain anymore. Maybe it only lasted minutes.
Benedict said the storm was the beginning of the Millennium, the Apocalypse. He looked out the window as if he expected to see Famine, Plague, War, and Death riding down on the farm. There was a gleeful look on his face when he stared out the window, the expression of a wicked little boy with something to hide.
We'd come to England for our honeymoon.
I loved the accents, the bad food, the eccentricities. London charmed me.
But London made Benedict nervous. He said there were too many years there, that he could feel the pressure of history on him like heavy weights.
Eventually, we decided to rent a small farmhouse in the countryside. Quaint and rustic, we could pretend to be gentlemen farmers, cozy in our cottage hide-away.
I like to remember that time -it didn't last long.
Everything changed. Except me.
I tried to talk to Benedict about it, but he just looked at me. Looking into those unblinking, ebony eyes was like staring into the abyss. He didn't know what I was talking about.
"Everything has changed," I said. "Can't you tell? You didn't use to be ... like this."
"Like what?"
"Like this. Blue."
Silence.
He toyed absently with his long braids. Crew-cut Benedict wearing a rasta hairdo.
"I think you should see a healer," he said.
"You mean a shrink."
"I don't want you to get smaller, I want you healed. You are obviously cursed by some strange magic."
"Bull."
That was one thing that hadn't changed. Benedict had always been good at putting off blame. It infuriated me when he did that.
"Look," I said. "I know this sounds crazy. You think I don't know how insane I sound? But I swear I'm not making this up. Things have changed. I remember microwave ovens, computers, television, CD's, for heavens sake. Now you look like a Smurf on steroids and we're living in fairy-tale land. Don't you find this disconcerting?"
He stared at me, silent and cold.
"I must go out now," he said.
***
My dreams.
They were vivid, full of omens and import. Bad dreams for a bad time. The first dream went like this:
She stands in a field of flowers. Her robes billow in slow-motion, hugging her, outlining her breasts, thighs, and stomach. In her hand is an obsidian crown. She raises it over her head then lowers it to her brow.
Hordes of foul creatures appear on the horizon behind her, led by four horsemen.
She could stop them, but she doesn't. The thrill of the power is in her now. A delicious wickedness -seductive and damning. She runs her hands over her body as this evil force flows through her.
In the end, the meadow is ruined, blackened and scorched beyond recognition.
She leans forward and I feel her warm, fetid breath. Her face is a parody of beauty, twisted by her cruelty.
"Remember, I am Ardinay. I am Death."
Her voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard.
There's someone with me, a shadow, grey and vague in the background. He reaches for me, but his hands slide through me. I'm as insubstantial as a ghost. He tries to speak, but I can't hear him.
I woke in a sweat. Benedict was still asleep. I touched him, a reflex. His skin was cool, hard and unyielding, like a pebble under fast, running water.
The tears began then, hot tears in my frosty bed.
***
Benedict and I argued. He denied that the world had changed. These fights left me so frustrated that I often ran screaming from the room.
I began to mistrust him.
The local villagers knew something was wrong with me, too. They gave me strange looks when I went into town and stared at me out of their crude huts. They didn't think I noticed them looking, but I did. I could feel their eyes on me like ants crawling on my skin. It got so bad I didn't go into town after a while. Instead, I spent my time tinkering with the few items left from before the storms. My portable CD player still worked. When Benedict came home one evening I showed it to him. I even made him sit down and try to use the damn thing. It stopped playing the minute he touched it.
He told me I was a sorceress, that I was playing with evil magic and I must stop. He said I mustn't tell anyone what I could do.
I began to hate him.
***
I had many dreams. I couldn't escape them. They were so real, and seemed to become more real as time went by. Sometimes I wasn't sure I was dreaming anymore. I don't remember all of them.
***
I stand on that familiar field. Ardinay is here. Clad in armor, she rides a huge horse. Her lance is drawn and aimed at someone. I think it's me, but as she charges forward, I see her rush toward a man. He looks like a Viking. Her lance strikes him. I run to him. His chest is soaked in blood.
I cradle his head in my arms. He looks at me. I'm drawn by his eyes. Seduced. I'll do anything for him.
"See what she's done," he says. "Save me from her."
"How?" I ask.
"Kill her."
"Who are you?" I ask
"Uthorion. Angar Uthorion."
He coughs blood. It spatters my face like teardrops. The light goes out of his eyes, and I'm left holding his limp body. The pain of his death hits me in waves of agony. He is my life and Ardinay, that bitch, has killed him.
I lay him on the ground. A shadow falls across us. I look up. Standing before me is a knight clad in armor similar to Ardinay's.
"You are not supposed to be here," he says.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"Noble of the House Gerrik. Who are you?"
"Martha Ayers. From America."
"You are dead," he says.
***
One morning after one of those terrible dreams, I asked Benedict what he knew about Ardinay.
"Lady Pella Ardinay of the Houses?" he asked, surprised at my interest.
"I suppose. I've been having nightmares about her."
"Oh," he said. "Tell me."
Something in his voice made me cautious.
"I don't know. Just dreams. I've never heard of her, but I have this feeling that she's a real person. Pretty strange, don't you think?"
"I do not know what to think. I do not know you anymore, Marka."
"I told you, my name isn't Marka. It's Martha. Martha Ayers. Good god, Benedict, we've known each other for years. You know my name."
"I know that you are my lifemate and I do not understand this strange behavior."
"You and me both."
We stood and looked at each other. Even with all the changes, I still knew him. It was a queer sensation, as though reality were layered over by a fine film. In that moment I could almost see the truth, but not quite. Not then, not until later.
I'd never felt so alone. I came to England believing that Benedict and I were starting a life together that would last until we died. Now my life was slipping away from me faster and faster and I couldn't stop it.
I went riding my bike in the countryside one day. What I saw as I rode along scared me even more than when Benedict changed into an elf after the storms.
The countryside had turned into something awful. Green rolling hills and meadows had been transformed into scarred, blackened earth. The trees were twisted and gray beyond recognition and I could barely identify what type they were. When I stopped and touched one of them it seemed to cry out. For an instant, I could have sworn I saw a woman's face in the bark.
All around me the trees sighed. Mournful sounds. I wanted to gather them together and ease their pain, but I couldn't. I couldn't help anyone. Not myself, not Benedict, not those wretched tress.
I began to pedal faster, as though I could outrun the terrible images I was seeing. That's when I came upon the group of dwarves. I'm not talking about little people, although they were. I mean real dwarves, with beards, crossbows, and armor. They stopped me, fascinated by my bike.
Their names were Diver, Wart, Ferris, and Brown Billy. I tried hard not to laugh as they introduced themselves. It felt good to laugh. It'd been a long time since I'd felt happy.
Diver was the leader of the group, outgoing and talkative. Unlike the others, he kept his beard short-cropped and neatly trimmed. Wart also liked to talk and had a sense of humor, but the other two, Ferris and Brown Billy, didn't seem to have anything to say. I wasn't sure if they were taciturn or just stupid.
All of them were dressed in shades of brown and gray. Their clothes seemed practical and sturdy.
They told me a lot about Aysle, which is where they said they came from. And they talked about Lady Ardinay. They seemed to like her. I felt sorry for them, being duped by that woman. Obviously, she had deceived them into believing that she was good and kind. That she would take advantage of their trusting nature revealed a lot about her character to me.
They talked about the storms. Slowly, I began to understand what had happened to my world. Ardinay had invaded Earth and imposed this fantasy world on us. My dreams were signs that I had to stop her. I didn't want to be involved with this, but it was beginning to look like I didn't have a choice. If I wanted my world and my life back, I had to take some action to stop her.
I spent the afternoon together with the dwarves, and when I left, I felt better than I had since the storms.
Dwarves and talking trees were becoming commonplace to me.
***
"Join us," Mara says.
We stand in the field where the other dreams took place. This time it's covered in green grass dotted with delicate pink and white flowers.
Mara looks ultra-punk, her hair a white mane. She touches me with her cybernetic arm, pointing towards a castle in the distance I've never noticed before.
"I know you think Ardinay is the enemy, but she's not. Uthorion is deceiving you."
"Liar," I say. "He's my life. And you want to kill him."
"No," she says. "Uthorion is using you. Can't you see?"
"I don't believe you. He warned me about you."
I put my hand into my pocket, fingers closing around the handle of a knife. I don't remember putting it there, but feel a surge of confidence at its presence.
"Please, listen to me," she says. "You're important to all sides right now. You're the balance. If you go to him, he'll use you up and throw you aside. But we need you. We will always need you. Every Storm Knight is important in this struggle."
<#FROWN:M06\>
Seekers
Todd Fahnestock
Gylar Radilan, of Lader's Knoll, set his mother's hand back onto her chest, over the rumpled blanket. It was done then. Gylar wasn't sure whether to be relieved or to crumple into the corner and cry. Finally, though, it was done. Stepping back, he fell into the chair he'd put by her bed, the chair he'd sat upon all night while holding her hand.
His head bowed for a moment as he thought about the past few days. The Silent Death had swept through the entire village, killing everyone. It had been impossible to detect its coming. There were no early symptoms. One minute, people were laughing and playing- like Lutha, the girl he had known - and the next, they were in bed, complaining weakly of the icy cold they felt, but burning to the touch. Their skin darkened to a ghastly purple as they coughed up thicker and thicker phlegm, and in a few hours their bodies locked up as with rigor mortis.
Poor Lutha. Gylar swallowed and sniffed back tears. She'd been the first one, the one who had brought about the downfall of the village. Gylar could remember going with her into the new marsh, the marsh that hadn't been there before the world shook. People had told their children repeatedly not to go in. They said it had all sorts of evils in it, but that had never stopped Lutha. She'd never listened to her parents much, and once she got something into her head, there was no balking her. She'd had to know about their tree, his and her tree.
Now she was dead. Now everyone was dead. Everyone, of course, except Gylar. For some reason, he hadn't been affected, or at least not yet. His parents had seemed to be immune as well, until the day they collapsed in their beds, shivering.
Gylar rose and crossed the room. He looked out the window to the new day that was shining its light across the hazy horizon and sifting down over the trees skirting the new marsh. He clenched his teeth as a tear finally fell from his eye. If it hadn't been for the marsh, none of this would have happened! Lutha never would have brought the evil back with her, and everyone would be okay. But, no, the gods had thrown the fiery mountain. They'd cracked the earth, and the warm water had come up from below, and with it whatever had killed the town.
Gylar banged his small hand on the windowsill. Why did they do it? The villagers all had been good people. Paladine had been their patron; Gylar's mother had been meticulously devoted to her god, teaching Gylar to be the same. She had loved Paladine, more than anyone in the village. Even after the Cataclysm, when everyone else turned from the gods in scorn and hatred, Gylar's mother continued her evening prayers with increasing earnestness. What did she, of all people, do to deserve such punishment? What did any of them do to deserve it? Was everyone on Krynn going to die, then? Was that it?
Gylar was young, but he wasn't stupid. He'd heard his parents talking about all the other awful things now happening to people who'd survived the tremors and floods. Didn't the gods care about mortals anymore?
Caught up in a slam of emotions, Gylar turned and ran from the house. He ran to the edge of the new bog and yelled up at the sky in his rage.
"Why? If you hate us so much, why'd you even make us in the first place?"
Gylar collapsed to his knees with a sob. Why? It was the only thing he could really think of to ask. It all hinged on that. Why the Cataclysm? How could humans have been evil enough to deserve this? How could anyone?
For a long moment he just slumped there, as though some unseen chain were dragging at his neck, joining the one already pulling at his heart. Gylar sniffled a little and ran his forearm quickly across his nose.
Stumbling to his feet, he looked at the sky again. Clouds were rolling in to obscure the sun, threatening a storm. Gylar sighed. Although he had nowhere else to go, he didn't want to stay in this place of death. His eyes swept over Mount Phineous. The towering mountain still looked overpoweringly out of place, like a sentinel sent by the gods to watch over the low, hilly country. The top fourth of it was swept by clouds. Another result of the Cataclysm, the mountain seemed a counterpart of the new swamp. Brutal and imposing, powerful, the towering rock was the opposite of the silent, sneaky swamp of death.
His fatigue overcame his sadness and revulsion, at least for the moment. Slowly, he made his way back to the house, back to the dead house. Stopping in the doorway, Gylar turned around to look at the land that was growing cold with winter. It was likely going to snow today.
He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. It didn't matter. Nothing much mattered anymore. His limbs dragged at him heavily. Sleep, he thought, that's all. Sleep, then, when I wake up - if I wake up - I'll figure out what to do.
So, for the first time in three days, Gylar slept.
Eyes focused on his pray, Marakion stilled his breathing, though a haze of white drifted slowly from his mouth. The scruffy man before him leaned heavily against the tree, huffing frosty air as he tried to recover from the run. Although exhausted, the man never once turned his fearful eyes from Marakion.
"A merry chase, my friend," Marakion said in a voice that was anything but merry. "Tell me what I wish to know. This will end."
The man stared in disbelief. Marakion was barely winded. The man gulped another breath and answered frantically, "I told you! I never heard of no 'Knight-killer Marauders!'"
Marakion hovered over the thief, his eyes black and impenetrable, his lip twitching, barely holding his rage in check. The bare blade of his sword glimmered dully. "Knightsbane Marauders," he rumbled in a low voice. The scruffy man quivered under the smoldering anger. "You are a brigand, just like them. You must know of them. Tell me where they are."
"I told you!" The thief cringed against the tree. "I don't know!"
In brutal silence, Marakion let loose his pent up rage. One instant his sword, Glint, was at his side, and the next, the flat of it smashed into the man's neck. The thief was so surprised by the attack that he barely had time to blink. The strike sent him reeling. Two more clubbing strokes dropped him to the frosty earth, unconscious.
"Then you live," Marakion said, breathing a bit harder. Leaning down, he searched the body thoroughly for the insignia that gave his life burning purpose.
There was none to be found.
Furiously disappointed, he left the useless thug where he lay and headed for the road.
The town that had been his destination before the small band of ruffians had attacked him lay ahead. He had searched all of the towns and outlying areas east of here, only to come up empty-handed, forever empty-handed. But this desolate area showed promise. Marakion was sure the marauders were here. They had to be. During the last few days, he'd come across numerous wretches like the one he'd just felled. None of them belonged to the Knightsbane, but their presence might be a sign that he was getting close to their hideout.
It wasn't long before sparse trees gave way to a huge, rolling meadow. On its edge stood a squat, dirty little town. Marakion didn't even look twice at the ramshackle buildings, the muddy, unkempt road, the muck-choked stream. The sight of people living in such squalor was not unusual to him, not unusual at all. In fact, this place was better than some he'd seen.
The few people he saw as he followed the road to town gave him quick, furtive glances from beneath ragged, threadbare cowls. Marakion ignored them, made his way to the first tavern he could spot.
He didn't even read the name as he entered. It didn't matter to him where he was, and the names only depressed him - new names, cynically indicative of the time, such as 'The Cataclysm's Hope,' or old names, which the owners hadn't bothered to change. Those were even worse, sporting a cheerful concept of a world gone forever, their signs dangling crookedly from broken chains or loose nails.
Marakion opened the door; it sagged on its hinges once freed of the doorjamb. He pushed it shut, blocking out the inner voice that continued to remind him how worthless life was if everything was like this.
Marakion turned and surveyed the room, walked forward to the bar that lined the far wall.
The innkeeper had smiled as Marakion had entered, but now blanched nervously at sight of the hunter's stony face, the dark, deliberate gaze.
"Uh, what can I do for you, stranger?"
"What do you have to eat this day, innkeep?"
"Fairly thick stew tonight. Mutton, if you've the wealth."
"Bread?"
"Sure, stranger, fairly fresh, if you've the wealth."
Marakion did not return the man's feeble attempts to be friendly. "A chunk of fresh bread and the stew." He tossed a few coins on the bar. "I'll be at that table over there."
The innkeeper scooped the coins off the counter in one movement. "I'm Griffort. You need anything, I'm the man to talk to. I don't suppose you'll be staying for the night. Got a couple of rooms open -"
"One room," Marakion interrupted, "for the night." He left a stark pause in the air and waited.
"Uh, um, another of those coins'll do it," the unnerved innkeeper stuttered.
Marakion paid the man and made his way to the table he'd indicated. As he sat down, he touched his money pouch. Not much left. A filthy inn, rotten food, a room likely crawling with rats, and costing him as much as a night in Palanthas - that was the type of world he was living in now.
The type of world he lived in now ...
Marakion put his fingers to his face and massaged his eyes gently. He couldn't make the memories go away. Even if he blocked the images, the essence of them still came to him. He couldn't seem to shut that out. It infected his every thought, his every action.
He relaxed, and his muscles began to unknot from the day's exercise. He could feel the pull of exhaustion on him. His fingers continued to massage closed eyelids, and the inn slowly drifted from his attention.
Where is she, Marakion? A familiar voice asked the question again inside his head.
"I don't know. Nearby somewhere. I don't know," he muttered.
That's not good enough, Marakion. Where is she? Where?
"I'm looking, trying to find her!"
Not good enough, Marakion. There can be no excuses. They'll kill her, you know. Every day you fail to find them is another day they could kill her, or use her.
"I know. I'll find them. If I have to rip apart this entire continent. I will."
You'd better.
The accusing voice drifted away, to be replaced by the vision that haunted his nights when he slept and his waking hours whenever he lost the concentration that kept it at bay.
Fire. Fire and smoke. The flames licked the top of the tower windows. The smoke spiraled up from every part of the castle, blackening the sky. Despair wrenched at Marakion's heart. He had returned home in time to see it fall to the hands of a pillaging group of brigands.
His horse slipped on the cobblestones that led into the castle. He yanked brutally on the reins, pulling the galloping animal to a stop. The horse almost stumbled to its knees.