The first shot that hit her shuttle took her completely by surprise. She had not even considered that the Council army would try to stop her. They had seemed so fixed on Sanctum, and she so above the distant, silent action, that the threat had not occurred to her at all.
Then the second shot struck, and the shuttle bucked as it lost power. She realized that she would not have to worry about seeing Taurani’s face in the shadows for long.
She felt tears on her cheeks, but sat up straighter despite her fear. Her hands clenched into fists within the interface, wrestling with the old ship as it started to list dangerously to the right. She tried to force it back up and away, desperate to escape the claws of vicious light that raked her flanks.
Ahead of her, Sanctum loomed up out of the viewing field. The army seething around it looked like a surging tide of vermin, and she suddenly realized that there was more truth to the random thought than she would have assumed. The galaxy belonged to those vermin, and the masters that held their leashes. The last refuge against that unholy alliance was Penumbra, and she may well have surrendered it to them herself.
The shuttle changed course, bringing its nose in line with the rear of Sanctum’s bridge section. She did not need to survive the impending crash, only the Skorahn did. If Marcus Wells was here, there had to be a reason. The administrator needed the Skorahn, no matter what else transpired.
She wanted to see images of Iwa’Ban rise up in her mind as she leaned into the coming impact. She wanted one last glimpse of her homeworld, scars and all, before she died. But all she saw was the pale purple face of Iranse, glaring at her through a single eye, and then the black, fathomless eyes of Alab Oo’Juto. He looked sadly at her as her own eyes widened. Then there was a jarring shock, a distant, rending crash, and a heavy blackness rose up to engulf her.
*****
There were several breaches in the vast expanse of crystalline window now, the shimmer of emergency integrity fields distorting what lay beyond. The surviving Variyar crouched low at their own self-made firing ports, keeping the overwhelming forces of the Council at bay for as long as they could. Already several were stretched out on the floor where they had fallen, the grievous wounds of galactic energy weapons horrifically, obviously fatal.
Marcus found that even in moments of mortal stress, his brain lacked the discipline to focus completely. He wondered why the city allowed the Variyar weapons to fire without locking them down with a suppression field? There must be a very strange, convoluted logic behind when Penumbra decided its inhabitants required its help in saving them from themselves.
“Small craft incoming!” A rough voice, he couldn’t have said whose, shouted. It snapped him back to the despondent moment, and he looked up from where he had sunk down against the wall in the Alcove, waiting for the inevitable.
“Ours or theirs?” His mind still refused to grasp many elements of their situation. One of them, he was learning, was that the concepts of ‘us’ and ‘them’ was much harder to differentiate when you were one of only two Humans within thousands upon thousands of light years, and everyone between you and Earth seemed to hate you.
“Civilian model.” One of the Variyar had donned his helmet, which must have offered many more enhancements to his senses than even the nanite technology that infested his own brain. “Older model, well-maintained.”
Well, at least it probably wasn’t armed. He had been wondering when the Ntja would get around to bringing airpower to bear.
“Changing course.” The reports came in a passionless monotone. “It appeared to be skimming the fields, heading back to the Red Tower. It is now coming around, heading in this direction.”
Well, that was it, then. Even if it didn’t have weapons, they could crash the thing into Sanctum and breach the wall anywhere along the perimeter. There were only seven Variyar holding the line against them now; no way they could hold a full breach.
“It is taking fire from the Ntja!” Others were peering up from behind cover as the incoming fire slacked off, sheets of plasma rising up to meet the boxy, ungainly-looking craft that hove gracelessly into view.
He could see it now; the old standby shuttle from the administrator’s private bay. It was trailing sparks and venting air in glittering plumes that flash-froze in fan-shaped swathes of ice along the old hull. Even as he watched, the shuttle took several more hits, staggering in its flight as its trajectory was tortured by the battering. The craft followed an erratic course toward Sanctum as the pilot struggled to keep it in line with the ancient starship. It soon became clear that he intended to bring it right up against the forward observation bubble.
Did he intend to land out there, in front of the entire enemy army? Marcus looked down at the bronze surface outside Sanctum. The Ntja were pressing in close on all sides, offering very little room for such an effort.
But the shuttle was not slowing its approach, nor was it slewing around for a landing. Its nose continued to point directly at Sanctum, heading for the rear of the bridge area where the dome’s wall of windows met with the metal bulkheads and blast doors that led to the rest of the ancient ship.
His eyes went wide as he realized the shuttle was still not slowing down. It continued to take a beating from the Ntja arrayed outside, withering away under the fire as he watched.
“Take cover!” The piping voice of Khet Nhan was huge in the silence that had descended as they all stood at their stations to watch the drama outside unfold.
The silence was shattered when the enormous bulk of the service shuttle, now lacking even a pretext at directed flight, crashed through the crystalline matrix that had kept the vacuum at bay for longer than any Galactic race could remember.
Marcus dove down beneath the lip of the sunken Alcove. From the corner of his eyes he saw the others crouching behind control consoles or minute contours in the floor for what little cover they could find.
Sihn Ve’Yan was blasted off her feet by the concussion of the shuttle’s impact, smashing into a Variyar warrior who had raised his hands to catch her. They both crashed to the deck, rolling with the vicious momentum.
For a moment, Marcus’s ears whined with a painful change in air pressure. A geyser of atmosphere flashed out from the ragged wound in the crystal windows and metal pains before a large emergency containment field flashed into existence, halting the flood of air, and distant, unseen fans churned into life to replace what had been lost.
It was a testament to the Variyar that they were back against their barriers, weapons once again blasting away, before the smoke had even begun to rise from the wreckage. The Ntja were still holding back, not approaching despite all their advantages. Marcus was no student of military tactics, but he didn’t think it boded well that the enemy, given their clearly superior position, were waiting for something more before they moved.
Looking up over the lip of the Alcove’s pit, Marcus watched Khet Nhan rise shakily to his feet, dusting off his white robes, and pull the metal rod from his sash. The thing shivered and grew into a long staff of the same thickness. The little mystic never took his red eyes off the crumpled, smoking wreck.
Sihn Ve’Yan limped up behind her master, favoring one leg, her arm curled up at her side. Her enmity and disappointment was obviously not enough to drive her from her place at Nhan’s side. She, too, was staring at the ship, moving forward in a crouch that promised more mayhem than a dozen guns or swords.
Marcus did not stir. His ears were ringing with the concussive blast of the ship’s crash, his eyes were squinting against an accumulation of acrid smoke Sanctum’s systems seemed incapable of clearing away. The flashes of light from his defenders’ weapons lit up the drifting banks of stinging fog, giving the whole scene a surreal, hellish cast.
As Nhan and Ve’Yan disappeared into a massive, jagged rent in the shuttle’s side, Marcus stayed where he was. He couldn’t imagine who would have wanted to reach Sanctum so badly they would brave the gauntlet of Ntja soldiers outside only to crash here. He was af
raid who he might find behind the controls. He was more afraid of what state they might be in.
Khet Nhan staggered back out of the shuttle with none of his usual grace, his little eyes wide. He cast around the chamber, eyes blinking, and then settled on Marcus. He was leaning on his metal staff as he gestured for Marcus to join him with one paw.
When Marcus didn’t move, Nhan snapped, and gave one more violent gesture. “Now, Administrator!”
Marcus was fairly sure he shouldn’t be spoken to like that, but eased out of his cover and walked hesitantly toward the little Goagoi mystic.
Nhan huffed, shook his head, and rushed at him, taking one sleeve in a strong grip. “Quickly, Administrator, before it’s too late.”
Marcus found himself dragged down the tiered steps of the ancient bridge to where the service shuttle lay in a cradle of buckled decking and a nest of window frame and wires.
“Hurry. Hurry!” Somehow, Nhan was behind him, pushing him through the jagged hole and into the dark core compartment of the shuttle.
“Forward. Now!” The pushing continued, and he almost spun around to growl at the little creature, until he saw the thin fluid splashed all over the forward bulkheads, and the pale shape huddled within the restraints of the command couch. Sihn Ve’Yan crouched down beside the couch, and her eyes flicked from the still form to Marcus, as if waiting for some violent reaction.
The lighting was poor, reminding him uncomfortably of the interior of his own Variyar transport after their crash. But there was something about the diminutive form he saw there that narrowed his eyes. The head, tilted away from him, was hairless and pale. As his vision adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw the tracery of black lines, like cracks in fine porcelain, and his heart froze into a painful lump in his chest. He stopped moving, staring at the back of her head, and nothing Nhan did would drag him closer.
At last, the little mystic turned with an exasperated sigh. “You must finish this journey. You must go now!”
Marcus shook his head, unable to speak. At the little Thien’ha’s voice, though, the form in the couch stirred slightly, and her head tilted listlessly to the side. Wide, pale blue eyes searched the shadows as her hands, curled in her lap like little claws, twitched aimlessly.
The pale, thin lips moved but no sound emerged. There was no doubting the excruciating pain in those eyes.
“It’s okay.” Ve’Yan, her voice almost unrecognizable in its tenderness, reached out and rested one hand on the figure’s shoulder. “He is coming.”
Marcus felt his head shaking. The cold lump in his chest was rising, filling his throat, and he didn’t know if he was going to vomit or scream.
Turning her head had clearly been the most she could do, and she settled back into the couch with a soft, hissing sigh. Still, the hands twitched.
Ve’Yan stood and looked at him coldly. “There is little enough you can do now, Human. The cycle is nearly complete.”
He wanted to shout at her, to curse her God damned cycles. Didn’t she remember what this traitor had done to them all? What she had done to the dolphin that was supposed to be their savior? Until he had met Angara Ksaka, Marcus had lived an extremely normal life, his understanding of the term ‘betrayal’ blessedly mundane. He was finding that your first, much like your first love, was a deep, impactful experience you were not likely to forget. He shook his head again.
Ve’Yan sneered at him, and then looked down at the being that had been her master with a look no less filled with contempt. “And so it falls to you, master.” Marcus cringed from the venom she managed to pack into that word. She gestured at the still body with a graceful hand. “Complete your apostasy, and walk the rest of your life alone.”
Marcus could not believe that now, of all times, he was once again caught between the two fanatics and whatever internal discord they were struggling with. The tension was a nearly-visible force stretching between the two as a heavy silence almost seemed to drown out the sounds of battle beyond the fractured hull.
“Please.” The voice was nearly lost in that imperative stillness. It was weak and breathy, and in its near-silence, it managed to convey an entire world of pain.
Ve’Yan’s eyes softened, and the look she then shot at both Nhan and Marcus was almost pleading.
Marcus felt a small hand slip into his own and almost jerked away, but he stayed still, looking down at the little master.
“There is no more harm to be done here, Marcus Wells.” The soft white robes shuffled as the creature shrugged. “And perhaps a little good?”
He shook his head again, but there was no conviction in it. She seemed to be growing smaller as he watched, her body diminishing before his eyes. He looked down again at Khet Nhan. The little creature did not speak, but his soulful red eyes were eloquent.
Marcus closed his own eyes and took a deep breath, almost coughing on air thick with smoke and worse. He opened them and tried to force himself to move forward. His legs refused the order.
She had betrayed him! She had betrayed them all! He didn’t know why she had flown through the enemy fleet, the very enemy she had handed them to with her treachery, and a very large part of him didn’t care. But Nhan was right. There was very little she could do now.
He forced himself to move forward, easing past a silent Sihn Ve’Yan, to stand at last in front the wounded, dying, Iphini Bha.
She was torn and bleeding, her porcelain skin almost white. Her body was bent into a painful, unnatural pose, curled around those twitching hands, and her eyes were larger and more luminous than ever.
She tried to talk, but then shuddered in a pain-wracked cough. There was thin blood on her lips, and running down from one small nostril. She tried to talk again, her chest fluttering, and again collapsed into a twisted, hunched misery. He saw that there were tears coursing down her cheeks, mingling with the blood, and the lump in his throat receded just a little.
“Hello, Iphini.” He didn’t know what else to say, but that seemed pathetic as soon as he heard himself. She almost smiled, though, and so it seemed like it might have been enough.
She tried to speak again, and this time got a few words out, but for some reason they were registering as nothing but gibberish to him, his nanite enhancements failing him with that strange tickle he got in his inner ear sometimes when they were unable to translate something.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
Suddenly, the desire to hear her words was almost overwhelming. He felt like she was trying to communicate to him from across some vast gulf of understanding and enlightenment. He needed to know what she was trying to say. She subsided back into the couch again, and desperation began to thaw the anger in his chest.
“I can’t understand what she’s trying to say!” He looked over at Khet Nhan in fear.
The little creature moved up beside him and crouched down next to the wrenched and twisted couch. He muttered something to the Iwa’Bantu girl, caressing her smooth head with one gentle paw. She leaned into his touch, the big eyes closing. Her lips moved, but even as close as he was, Marcus couldn’t hear a sound.
Nhan nodded, and then looked up at Marcus. “She sees that her cycle is ending. She passes knowing that she strayed from her path.” He looked away, not able to meet Marcus’s eyes. “She dies fully aware of her betrayal.”
One twisted hand floated up to snag the collar of the little mystic’s robe and drag him back down, and again her chest fluttered, her lips trembled, moving very little, and then she settled back again, one hand curled up higher on her chest.
Nhan’s eyes looked up again at Marcus. “She came here to set things right.”
The hand fumbled at the neck of her tunic, and a gleaming flash of sapphire glittered in the dust-laden shaft of light.
Marcus felt his heart leap into his throat again, but this time it seemed to pulse there, threatening to choke him, and there was no anger or fear in it.
Her eyes, barely slits now, found him
out, and she lifted the familiar medallion just about an inch off her chest before it fell back, her strength exhausted.
The medallion. The Skorahn. The only thing that offered them even a hint of hope.
There was a cold, distant part of his mind that refused even now to believe what he was seeing. That medallion was around Khuboda Taurani’s neck, he knew. He knew it with all of the certainty of dread. There was no way that egomaniacal bastard would have ever let the mysterious Skorahn out of his grasp.
He knew that as he knew his own name.
Iphini Bha was staring up at him, a wordless message that he could not read in her eyes. He stared down at her, but his mind was twisting around his disbelief and fear of further betrayal.
But what if Taurani didn’t know the true power of the medallion? Marcus tried to put himself back to when almost every entity in the known galaxy assumed the position of administrator was a pointless, powerless sinecure. The officeholder was nothing more than a living battery for the city’s systems.
What if Taurani still believed that? What if the Ambassador still believed that the Skorahn was nothing more than the degraded symbol of an impotent office?
Marcus had made a classic mistake, and he could hear that younger version of himself scolding him in harsh, unforgiving tones.
Taurani had not learned the lessons he and his friends had learned. Not until it was too late, apparently.
Marcus lowered himself to one knee. Part of him wanted to take the medallion now and run for the wall in the Alcove. But he forced himself to rest his hand upon hers instead. “I understand, Iphini.” He didn’t, not really, but he no longer doubted the sincerity of her regret. There would be plenty of time to ponder Bha’s motives and actions later if they all survived.
Legacy of Shadow Page 46