Griffiths gestured with his right hand and a bright red line etched itself across the stars. “ ‘So it came to pass that Lokan proclaimed with flattering words to the people the will of Kendis-dai to be fulfilled: that according to his word they would embark upon a great journey into the wilderness of the sky that they might hide up in the blackness thereof the ensigns of their master’s power and wreak justice among the servants of Obem-ulek. Standing upon the Temple steps, he held aloft the Nightsword of Kendis-dai, holy and terrible in its power and aspect, great is its Name in its ordering of the stars and mighty is its power in bringing the will of Kendis-dai among the heavens. Whatsoever its bearer willed was so, for the edge of its blade was bright to the cutting of all that was and bringing to pass that which its possessor desired.’ ”
“ ‘Whatsoever its bearer willed was so,’ ” Merinda repeated. “Chapter seven, verse four. You are really up on your ancient history for a barbarian, Griffiths.”
“Well, I’ve done a little study lately,” Griffiths replied offhandedly. “I’ve also noted that most of the emergence of human races in the galaxy seem to stem from this same time period.
“Prior to the Lokan Crusade, humanity was a statistically minor race in the galaxy. True, Kendis-dai was human, as was much of his court. He ruled most of the galaxy but it wasn’t until the Lokan Crusade that the religious texts began talking about human supremacy and something called ‘Purification Quests.’ ”
Merinda nodded. “We know those as a great series of wars. Conquests more than quests, really, as Lokan passed through the stars toward the galactic core.”
“It was more than that.” Griffiths swept his arm across the illusionary starfield overhead. The galaxy was suddenly a rainbow of different-colored stars. “Each color is a race prior to the crusades. Now, here’s the distribution today.”
The stars shifted quickly to subtly different positions, with great swaths of them suddenly turning a brilliant blue.
“Humanity!” Merinda murmured.
“Yes—humanity,” Griffiths sniffed. “So effective was this change that in my own travels, limited though they have been, I haven’t met a single truly alien race.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I think that Lokan was a racist,” Griffiths replied. “I think he used the Nightsword to enforce his own ideas of human supremacy on the galaxy at large.”
“What kind of power could possibly do such a thing!”
“The same power that Targ is trying to secure for himself,” Griffiths said, banishing the galactic map with another wave of his hand and restoring the clouds that had previously occupied the dome. “If he obtains it before the galaxy is wise to him there’s no telling what he’s capable of doing.”
“Then we’ve got to get the word out!” Merinda said indignantly. “Transcom to every node on the net!”
“Oh, wake up, Merinda!” Griffiths snapped. “Targ owns the net! He killed your story about Avadon and the Mantle being discovered …”
“What!”
“Killed it. Dead. It never went out. Now he’s wrapped up the entire planet under his ‘protective’ fleet.” Griffiths shook his head. “We’re on our own, on this one, Merinda.”
Neskat hesitated—something which Griffiths couldn’t recall having seen before. He supposed it made sense; Griffiths had just told her that everything she had supported in her work had just turned on her. At the least it would require some major shift in her thinking.
“Can you keep the information from him?” she asked at last.
“Well, I could lie to him,” Griffiths offered, “but he doesn’t trust me as it is. The truth is I have no idea what it is that he has in mind. He obviously needs leverage on me of some kind but it’s hard to imagine just what form that leverage would take—what could the man possibly have on me?” Griffiths shrugged. “Most likely, no matter what I tell him, he’ll find an excuse to invade the planet. In that case, he might try to ransom the populace for the information he wants. I know these people, Merinda. They’ll fight him to the last soul. A lot of people would die, Merinda, just to delay him for a few days.”
“I can’t believe he’s capable of that,” Merinda said, shaking her head, “but he’s lied to me, Griffiths—and he’s never done that before either.”
“Hey, I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion,” Griffiths countered with a sly grin. “Still, I have a solution that may well satisfy a number of different problems. It has certain risks, but I think the payoff is well worth the price. We don’t really know what he’s up to, but I think with a little effort on our part, we might just figure it out. So … do you mind talking a little treason?”
Merinda folded her arms skeptically across her chest. “I’m listening.”
10
Old Wounds
Merinda stepped into the darkness. The antechamber had been lit only with candles that flickered in the uncertain draftiness of the ancient rooms. She was not afraid of the darkness—time had taught her well that there was nothing in the darkness except an absence of illumination. Things could hide in the darkness and often did, but in Merinda’s experience they were seldom more dangerous than when they were lit. A trained Vestis viewed the loss of sight as simply a way of making the game more interesting for the other senses. Indeed, she had come to view the darkness as a friend.
The room she entered was chill. She could barely make out the dim outlines of the three archways leading to the balcony. The sky had grown dark as it did each cycle, bringing night to the world on schedule. Just as there had been no sun to brighten the light of Avadon’s day, so, too, there was no moon to bring light to her night. Only the cold and distant stars gave any brilliance to the streets of Aden, and sparse it was. Merinda could barely make out the diaphanous curtains shifting in the evening breeze. All other features of the room lay in a uniform blackness.
Still, she knew he was here.
“I have come, Targ, by your word,” she said quietly, announcing herself to the darkness. “I enter and serve.”
“Vestis Merinda Neskat,” floated the disembodied voice from the darkness. “So you have, indeed.”
Silence fell into the darkness.
Merinda was wary. Vestis Novus J’lan had managed to keep her on Avadon longer than her assignment had required. She had even thought to file a complaint against the little zealot until Targ had shown up. It was obvious to her then that the whole thing had been arranged by Targ so that this meeting could take place. Now she couldn’t be sure. She was here, there was minimal risk—what was he waiting for? What was he trying to accomplish?
“Targ, my mission here is fulfilled.” She was stating facts that Targ certainly already knew but hoped that recapping them would somehow spur her superior into conversation. “My last report was filed over a week ago to, what I hope, was a satisfactory conclusion. I am preparing my ship …”
“Satisfactory conclusion?” Targ’s voice rumbled through the darkness.
Bitterness, Merinda heard through his tone and the rustling of his suit in a nearby chair. Bitterness and, perhaps, contempt …
“Satisfactory conclusions. Now that’s an illusion, isn’t it?” Targ sniffed. “A happily-lived-forever that the storybooks always are telling us. Netcast entertainments, each with their simple little problems that come to their own satisfactory conclusions within their allotted time. Problem solved. They all lived happily forever after. People don’t want to know what happens after the last page is read or the telepresence sensors are shut down after the credits roll. Do they think about the heroes who return from the wars to face the crushing mundaneness of day-to-day life? They do not. So the old warriors, like you and me, keep telling the old stories because their endings make everyone happy—even when we know that they never end—not really.”
Merinda cocked her head. What was the old man talking about? Careful! “Is the Omnet displeased with the outcome of my last report?”
“Outcomes?” the
voice laughed. “You aren’t listening to me, are you. Outcomes only lead to other outcomes. There is no end to the story, Merinda. Life continues after the story ends. The report is wrapped. The netcast is transcommed. The public interest wanes—but the lives affected go on. Their pain endures long after their story is told and forgotten.”
The curtains drifted in the chilling breeze. Merinda shivered. She had always considered her ultimate master a cold individual, she thought ruefully, but this? Targ had always been a no-nonsense director of all Omnet operations. Merinda had risen in the ranks of the Inquisition to a post that was nearly as high as the Council itself and, theoretically, there were few people who actually stood between Targ and her. She hadn’t always agreed with everything that the man had initiated but his actions had always made some sense in the end. He had the big picture; she didn’t. He gave the orders; she obeyed. Things were that simple—or had been before now.
“Vestis,” Merinda said cautiously. “The Brishan is ready for flight, supplied and prepared for departure. If there is something which you feel is left undone in this assignment, then give the word and I shall see to it.”
A shadow arose before her in the room. Targ had been seated closer to her than she had assumed. Now his form seemed to fill her vision, uncomfortably close. She could feel the heat of his breath. “Yes, Merinda, there is something you will do for me—you will close a story whose end was written long ago and whose fate binds us both. Its course was determined in the ancient past and its ends foreseen, written in stone and the stars.”
Merinda looked up into the shadowed face looming over her, a well of darkness without depth, a soul suddenly open to her and without a bottom.
“We will play out that fate, Merinda, you and I, to its own ends—until nothing is left undone, Merinda … Until nothing more is left to be done.”
“Then start talking sense, Vestis Targ,” Neskat said, fighting the urge to take a step back from the silhouette towering over her. “What is it you want me to do?”
The silhouette hesitated. It was only a moment but that moment communicated much to Merinda. Targ had never been unsure of anything during all the time Merinda had worked for him—directly or otherwise—yet he faltered now.
Targ turned from her, looking away from the gaze that he could not possibly see. It was another reaction that spoke volumes to Merinda. Body language symbology was a basic teaching of the Vestis. Surely, she thought, Targ was better trained in its technique than anyone in the Inquisition was. Yet he was allowing himself to be read so easily. Either Targ’s posturing was intentional, or the head of the Omnet was so distracted by something as to forget one of the most basic teachings of their entire Order.
Targ moved as though to gaze out the starlit curtains.
“I want you to finish what you have started,” he replied simply.
“And just what is this thing that I am supposed to have begun?” Merinda asked in level tones.
“You opened the door on the past,” Targ replied, his voice belying his mind’s reflection on distant places and times. “The knowledge of the ancients is opened to us—with it comes the key to their power as well. The Oracles knew it from the beginning. It is why the Nine created the Omnet—not just as some news and information agency, but as the vehicle for the return of the power of the past! They waited until fate’s passage was fulfilled. Now, through your efforts, the time of fate has come.”
Targ turned toward her, the dim light of distant stars shining in his wide, liquid eyes. “Imagine it, Merinda! The glory of Kendis-dai restored to the galaxy. All the stars under a single order: a single will! What great things could be accomplished should that power be centered in the right hands? What horrors would be loosed were it to fall into the wrong hands?”
Merinda’s lips pressed into a thin line before she replied. “And just which of those hands are yours, Vestis Targ of Gandri?”
“My hands?”
He replied too quickly, she thought. He anticipates too much. Without thought, the natural suspicion that lies at the heart of all Vestis asserted itself. For the first time she questioned whether the Vestis Prime, supreme master of the order that she so faithfully served, was telling her the truth.
“No.” He shook his head.
He’s lying, Merinda realized with sudden, shocking certainty.
“It is the will of the Nine Oracles, not mine, that dictates this course. The Nine have spoken and I am bound to do their bidding in this matter. They have been quite specific. The passage into the galactic core has remained a mystery since the time of the ancients. We must recover that knowledge and we must use it to recover the Nightsword of Kendis-dai. Should the Order of the Future Faith recover it first, then all our gains thus far could easily be wiped out in a single stroke. For that matter, should any organization of any kind obtain it before us, it could represent a disaster of incalculable proportions.”
Merinda drew her breath in before she spoke. “Targ, I still don’t see why you have to be the one …”
“I must be the one to enter the core,” Targ said with finality. “I must. It is our fate, Merinda; the Nine have proclaimed it so.”
Targ smiled.
Merinda smiled back in the darkness.
“Then, Targ,” she said casually, “if you will excuse me, I have a ship which needs loading. If we are to meet our destiny, then I’d prefer to meet it well prepared.”
With that, Merinda turned. She walked casually out of the room—despite every desire of her soul to run.
Targ stood in the darkness, watching as the portals at the far end of the antechamber closed behind Merinda’s retreating form. The opening had barely whispered closed when he spoke.
“Vestis J’lan?”
The lean silhouette of the Vestis Novus stepped into the room from behind the balcony pillar that had thus far concealed him.
“Yes, Vestis Prime,” J’lan said, without the confidence that Neskat had demonstrated earlier. “I enter and serve.”
Targ sighed into the darkness. “You are certain she visited the barbarian earlier this evening?”
“Yes, Vestis, she was already in the chamber when I called upon the prophet earlier. She was hidden, sire; invisible for all others—nevertheless, she was there. You don’t suppose the two of them are working together do you?”
“Neskat and the barbarian?” Targ snorted. “She wouldn’t let him breathe long enough to get in her way.”
“What are her intentions, then?”
“She intends to fight me,” Targ said evenly. It was impossible to read any emotion in the statement. “She intends to stop me.”
“Perhaps not, sire,” J’lan replied behind him.
“You do not know her as I do, Vestis. She believes she knows the truth. The truth is something that Merinda Neskat never lets go of once she believes she has found it.”
The wind softly drifted the curtains behind them.
“She is a threat to the Omnet, Vestis J’lan.”
“Sire?”
“Sometimes we have to do things in the Inquisition which are distasteful, Vestis. Such things nevertheless must be done for the good of the whole. Here,” he spoke evenly, “is a teleport amulet. It’s small and will not encumber you in your task. It is linked to this second amulet that I wear. When I have my answer, I’ll activate my own amulet and join you at the starport, where we shall both leave this world together.”
Targ turned toward the Vestis Novus.
“As Vestis Prime of the Omnet, may I be the first to congratulate you on your new promotion, and on your captaincy of the Brishan.”
J’lan stammered slightly. “But—Vestis Neskat is the captain of the Brishan …”
“You were not chosen for this assignment at random, J’lan. I picked you myself. You were never exceptional in your general training but there was one particular discipline at which you excelled.” Targ’s low voice seemed to carry uncomfortably far in the still air. “You understand me perfectly, do you n
ot, Vestis J’lan?”
“Perfectly, Vestis Prime,” J’lan answered evenly though his mouth was dry as he spoke the words. “But …”
“Are you questioning my directives, Vestis Novus?”
“No, Prime, I am not questioning your directives.”
“Then you will see that they are carried out without hesitation or delay,” Targ said stiffly. “The fate of the entire Omnet can rest on the shoulders of a single Vestis at any given moment, J’lan—this moment it rests on yours.”
J’lan did not dare move. “I will not fail you, Prime Targ of Gandri.”
Targ moved behind the terrified Novus, his lips sneering as he whispered into the young man’s ears. “No, J’lan, you most certainly will not.”
11
Misdirection
Merinda stood on the cargo deck of the Brishan. It was late—late enough to qualify as very early—and she knew that she was tired. There would be time for rest later, she told herself.
Merinda leaned against a power conduit snaking through the enormous hold and disappearing behind a hulking alternate-spatial displacement drive. She studied her surroundings with no small satisfaction. Once again, Merinda smiled to herself, she had managed to pack the three-deck-tall open space with nearly every conceivable drive and power system that could fit within. She hoped that she could use them to plot a course through all the varied possibilities that would lie between her ship and its objective. Part of her doubted; she had never before attempted such a lengthy journey on a single load before. Indeed, the ship’s specifications flatly said that it could not be done. Merinda didn’t like being told what was possible.
The TyRen floated nearby in perhaps the only available open space, its four arms working smoothly over an object held in a stasis field before it.
“Babo?”
“I am addressed as Seven-alpha-three-five,” the warrior returned without missing a beat in its fluid motions.
“Of course you are,” Merinda sighed. “Seven-alpha-three-five, how much longer until you will be finished with this?”
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