Empire

by John Connolly

  “Dessa?” Syl forced out a laugh. “Well, I mean enough for you to think I’m a threat, obviously.”

  “You mean nothing,” Tanit reiterated. “And you mean less than nothing in your own right. The only thing that grants your protection, Syl Hellais, is the seed that made you, and even that was misplaced in the womb of a mother who rejected the Sisterhood.”

  “At least you’ve heard of my father and mother. I have no clue as to your parentage.”

  Tanit grabbed Syl’s face between her fingers. They were as scorching as coals.

  “That’s because you’ve never been to Illyr. You’re Earthborn, a mongrel. Without that stain your father made in your filthy gene pool, the Archmage Syrene would have had you thrown to the cascids long ago.”

  “But would she have her trained monkeys crush my bones first, or is that part optional?” Syl surprised even herself with her boldness. It was a worthwhile risk, though, for the shadow of fear that moved over Tanit’s face was answer enough to any lingering questions Syl might have had about Elda’s fate.

  “What are you talking about, you cretin?” said Tanit, but her recovery came too late. Whatever they did to Syl now would be almost worth it, for her darkest suspicions had been confirmed.

  “I think you know. And if you’ve already forgotten about Elda, I’m sure Sarea will remind you.”

  Tanit shoved her face close to Syl’s, a vein in her temple pulsing with rage. Her breath was hot and smelled of lightning, of ozone, sharp and pungent as the sparks on a bumper-car ride. Syl’s skin prickled under the heat and she felt redness rising across her cheeks, as if she was standing too close to a flame. Tanit clearly longed to burn the girl properly and fire flashed in her golden eyes, but then she glanced away.

  “Actually, after that little outburst, I think perhaps Sarea should remind you of who you’re dealing with. Sarea?”

  Sarea stepped forward obediently.

  “Just something small, please, dear,” instructed Tanit, and she looked back at Syl, watching her intently, licking her lips in anticipation. Instantly Syl felt an unseen vise tighten around her ring finger. She winced, grabbing her own hand in reflex, and Tanit smiled and nodded encouragingly.

  Sarea laughed quietly, but Nemein let out a wail.

  “I want a turn too,” she complained, but Tanit raised a hand to silence her.

  “In a moment,” she said.

  Gradually the pain in Syl’s finger intensified, but it was almost secondary, for Syl was doing battle in her own mind, determined not to reveal her powers, determined not to fight back.

  Build walls. Block out the pain. Block. Shield.

  She counseled herself to let it happen, not to put an end to it, not to turn Sarea’s power back on herself, for she felt the other girl’s strength moving within her. Perhaps she could do it, but no, not now. Not now! It was too soon.

  Walls. Bricks. Shields. Block out the pain.

  Block. Out. The. Pain.

  Pain!

  There was a fierce crack and Syl opened her mouth to scream, yet her howl of agony was drowned out by another. It was Sarea, clutching her own hand wildly, staring at it in horror, for the bone of her ring finger had burst through the skin, and blood spurted from the wound.

  Sarea, panicking at the pain and the sight of her own blood, whimpered as she grasped at anything for help. She reached for Tanit, but the pack leader stepped smartly out of her way, her lips twisting in distaste. Sarea lost her balance, and tumbled against Syl as she crashed to the ground. Syl was knocked backward onto one of the slatted benches beside the showers, and her skull thudded against the wall so hard that silver lights danced before her eyes. Woozy, feeling like things were happening in slow motion, she looked down at her hand where it flopped in her lap. At least it had to be her hand, she reasoned, because it was attached to her arm, wasn’t it? But she struggled to recognize this blue, swollen thing, with the ring finger hanging at an entirely new angle, twisted at the knuckle, dislocated from the joint, although the skin was smooth and unbroken. And, oh, the pain!

  The pain!

  Then there was nothing but darkness.

  CHAPTER 52

  Paul was seated at the head of the table when the others entered the briefing room, and they took chairs at either side of him, Tiray and Alis to his right, Thula and Peris to his left. They all appeared to be in varying states of shock, but Tiray most of all. Whatever he might have expected to find on Archaeon, it was not this.

  Paul waited for them to get as comfortable as possible before sharing with them his knowledge of the implantation of alien organisms into senior Corps officials. Peris already knew, but there was no point in hiding the knowledge from the rest of them, not after what they’d just witnessed on Archaeon. He gave them a moment to absorb the information, then asked for their impressions of what they had seen.

  Alis replied first.

  “The planet appears to have been transformed into a facility for the production and harvesting of those spores,” she said. “It’s an enclosed system. Host mammals are birthed and raised in holding pens, then released. The parasitic organisms that will ultimately kill them are either implanted shortly after birth, or simply find their way into their hosts through their presence in the atmosphere. Those harvester zeppelins can’t collect all of the spores. Some get away. Nevertheless, the former seems most likely. Why leave it to chance when the process could be guaranteed by implantation?

  “And it’s fully automated to avoid the risk of infection, or unwanted implantation. Although, given what we now know about Consul Gradus and his final moments—which suggests an apparent series of controlled implantations of these creatures into senior Diplomats—the relationship between the host and the organism is not the same as it is between the organism and those unfortunate creatures down on Archaeon.”

  “Is it even the same organism?” asked Tiray.

  Paul tried to remember everything that Syl had told him of Consul Gradus’s agonizing transformation, and the death of the Illyri laboratory assistant who was involved in examining him. Gradus’s body had changed, producing tendrils—presumably similar to those sprouting out of the organisms on Archaeon—before shooting clouds of spores from his mouth. These, in turn, had infected the laboratory assistant, whose body had swollen as he too was turned into nothing more than a storage sack for spores.

  “Suppose it is the same organism, but reacts in different ways according to the host in which it is implanted, or the circumstances in which it finds itself,” said Paul. “In Gradus and the chosen Illyri it becomes a passenger, experiencing the outside world through them but not harming them unless it’s threatened. But, in the case of the animals on Archaeon, it takes a more primitive form, and uses the host purely as a means to reproduce.”

  Alis cocked a perfect Illyri eyebrow at him.

  “That’s an interesting theory,” she said.

  “I’m no scientist,” Paul admitted.

  “Sometimes imagination is a useful starting point.”

  “Forgive me for interrupting a beautiful moment,” said Thula, “but they are only spores. They are like pollen. How can a grain of pollen make such decisions?”

  “It doesn’t,” said Peris. “It’s simply hardwired into its DNA.”

  Thula looked dubious, but didn’t argue.

  “Thula has a point, although not the one that he actually made,” said Alis.

  “Thank you,” said Thula. “I think.”

  “Spores are subject to random influences,” said Alis. “Wind, water, animals, flying creatures; they need something to transport them so they can reproduce, but they usually can’t control the means. They’re at its mercy.

  “Now, let’s say that at some time in the past, the Illyri discovered the existence of these organisms, maybe through infection or some other form of contact. Assuming that these organisms have a
kind of intelligence in their mature form, an accommodation was reached: the Illyri would find suitable hosts for them in which to reproduce, and in return these organisms would give the Illyri certain enhancements. Both sides win.”

  “And the hosts lose,” said Thula.

  “Yes, the hosts lose.”

  “It would be useful to harvest some of those spores ourselves,” said Paul. “And perhaps samples from the mature organism, and the host creatures.”

  “Useful, but dangerous,” said Tiray.

  “Are there any suitable storage facilities on board?” asked Paul.

  “We don’t have isolation chambers, if that’s what you mean,” said Alis. “We could put the samples in jars and seal them. I could go down and collect them. I don’t believe that the organism will be able to implant in a nonbiological host.”

  Paul shook his head.

  “No, it’s too risky. Archaeon’s atmosphere is probably rich with those spores. They’d be on your clothing, your skin, your hair. Even full sterilization might not be enough to get rid of them all.”

  He stood, walked to one of the windows of the briefing room, and looked down as the landscape passed beneath them. Peris joined him.

  “This planet is just the beginning, isn’t it?” said Paul.

  “I think so. Whatever these organisms are, they’re not going to be content simply to reproduce indefinitely in a backwater of the universe.”

  “The Illyri are going to give the earth to them,” said Paul. “Ultimately, that’s where those cargo transporters will end up.”

  “I fear you may be right. What do you want us to do, Lieutenant?”

  Paul continued to gaze upon Archaeon. Thankfully, the Nomad was flying too high to reveal the sufferings of the host animals, but the sight of zeppelins passing to and fro beneath them was a constant reminder to Paul of what was occurring on the surface.

  “Alis?” said Paul. “Confirm ordnance status.”

  “Three heavy cannon—two laser, one pulse. Twelve torpedoes. Four proximity mines.” Proximity mines could be released from a ship and left to float in space until a pursuing craft came close enough to set them off.

  “Can those mines be converted from proximity to timed detonation?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “Destructive power?”

  “Catastrophic. I believe that one of them could take out a destroyer.”

  “I don’t want to take out a destroyer. I want to blow up a nuclear reactor.”

  “Then I think one of them will serve your purpose perfectly well.”

  Tiray leaned forward in his chair.

  “Did I hear you right? You intend to destroy the reactor?”

  “Do you have an objection?”

  “All Illyri-built structures on the surface are almost certainly linked to that reactor,” said Tiray. “You’ll irradiate the entire planet.”

  “That’s my intention.”

  “But what of the indigenous species?”

  “The last time I checked, the outlook for the indigenous species was bleak. It seemed to involve dying painfully.”

  “And what you’re suggesting is somehow better?”

  “Councillor Tiray, the Illyri have turned Archaeon into a breeding ground for a hostile alien organism, one that I am certain is going to be used against my own people. The first step in fighting back is to bring to an end what is happening on the planet.”

  “Not all Illyri!” Tiray protested. “I had no part in this. Neither did Peris, or Alis. Most Illyri have no idea of what is being done in their name. If they did, they would surely object. They would not permit it!”

  “That’s very reassuring to hear,” said Paul. “Unfortunately, it comes a little late. Who knows how many of those transporters with their cargoes of spores have already left Archaeon?”

  “If you destroy that planet, you will be guilty of the annihilation of species that may exist nowhere else in the universe,” said Tiray. “It is the equivalent of genocide.”

  “And when those transporters reach Earth?” shouted Paul. “What then? That, Councillor, will be genocide, and I am not about to let it happen. Alis, how long to convert one of those mines?”

  “A few hours. Less, if I work fast.”

  “Do it.”

  “Alis”—Tiray’s voice carried a note of warning—“I order you not to assist the lieutenant with what he is planning.”

  “I am sorry, Councillor. I agree with you that the destruction of Archaeon is regrettable, but that process of destruction commenced as soon as the Illyri gave it to the organisms as a breeding facility. From that moment, Archaeon was doomed. We are merely finishing what the Illyri started.”

  “You speak of the Illyri as though we were another race,” said Tiray.

  “You are another race. I am not Illyri. I am Mech.”

  “But . . .” Tiray looked distraught. “I saved you. I treated you like my own child.”

  “And I will always be grateful to you for it,” said Alis. “But I am not a child, and I am not yours to command.”

  She stood and left the briefing room. Tiray let her go. He sat staring at the table, his expression a potent mixture of sadness and anger.

  One by one the others left until only Tiray and Paul remained.

  “This will change nothing,” said Tiray.

  “Maybe not, but it’s a start.”

  “If these organisms are intelligent, perhaps they can be reasoned with. Your planet, your people, may not have to be sacrificed.”

  “And what will you offer them instead?” asked Paul. “Another Archaeon, or some other unfortunate world that the Illyri can hand over without too much guilt because whatever lives on it can’t speak out against what will happen? No. The time for reasoning is over. The bargain has already been struck, Councillor. Someone on Illyr made a deal with the devil.”

  Tiray’s reply dripped with scorn.

  “The devil! I’ve read about your beliefs. I see the charm you wear around your neck. You’re no better than a deluded Mech, worshipping ghosts in the sky. I do not believe in a ‘devil.’ I believe only in what I can see.”

  “You’ve seen Archaeon,” said Paul. “How can you look at it, at the evil of it, and not believe in demons?”

  Tiray rose from his chair.

  “How can you look at it,” he asked Paul, “and believe in a god?”

  Paul had no answer.

  CHAPTER 53

  Syl awoke in an unfamiliar bed in a room that wasn’t her own: it was bright white and overlit, smelling of chemicals. It took a moment for the throbbing ache in her hand to make sense, for her thoughts were clouded with medication, and the memory of what had happened in the changing rooms felt like a tall story someone else had told her.

  A blurred face loomed over the bed.

  “Althea?” Syl said, confused, and the word croaked out from her dry lips like a cough.

  “You’re awake,” said Althea. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. Can I . . . ?” She tried to sit up, but gentle hands pushed her back.

  “Stay where you are. You had a nasty bump on the head. And your hand, your poor hand—what happened, Syl Hellais?”

  “I don’t know.” She was struggling to focus on Althea—her eyes felt like they were full of grit. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

  “You’re in the sickbay. The medics brought you here. You were found unconscious in the changing rooms at the gymnasium.”

  It hadn’t been her imagination then. But where had Althea come from? Syl covered her eyes, wondering what was wrong with her vision. She needed to see; she needed to think straight. When she looked again, Althea seemed to be shrouded in a cloud of red.

  “Sarea. What happened to Sarea?” said Syl.

  “Why do you want to know about Sare
a?”

  “She was in the changing room. Her hand—the bone came through. She fell. Where is she?”

  “She was with you?”

  “Yes. She was, and Tanit, and Nemein too.”

  “Yet you were found alone. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “She was hurting me. Sarea was hurting me. Hurting my hand. Then she was injured—oh God, it went right through her skin. There was so much blood . . .”

  “As I said, you were found alone. Listen to me: tell me what you remember from the very beginning. Tell me everything.”

  “But how can I have been alone? Where’s Sarea? What happened to Tanit?”

  “Well, Tanit is hardly likely to be visiting you, is she, Syl Hellais?”

  It was an odd response, and Syl felt a stirring of unease. Why was Althea using her proper name? To Althea, she had always been Syl, and only Syl. She shook her head and it thrummed uncomfortably, as if her brain were rattling in her skull, but Althea was still blurred and strange, and now she seemed to be wearing the red robes of the Sisterhood. Then Syl became aware of something else, something stabbing into her mind, a sharp pain as if someone was poking at her cerebrum with a stick. The stick was bony, though, resembling a broad finger. It was age-spotted, wrinkled, covered in thin flesh . . .

  “Oriel!”

  The old witch gave a laugh as she came into focus, and droplets of her spittle speckled Syl’s cheek. Syl turned her face away in disgust, but Oriel just cackled again as she sat down beside Syl’s bed.

  “Oh, how quickly you forget your manners when you’re not performing. To you, I am Grandmage Oriel. Never forget who I am, Earth-child. Never forget what I am.”

  Syl thought quickly, furious with herself. Of course Althea wasn’t here, but for the sweetest moment she had thought that her governess had returned to care for her. She realized how lost she was, and a deep sadness sucked at her guts. She yearned to let go of all this anxiety, but it consumed her. There was fear too, fear and dread at how easily Oriel had tricked her. How much did Oriel know? What had Syl told her, or inadvertently revealed? What did Oriel already know of what happened in the locker room? Syl’s best bet would surely be to play dumb.