The Golden Queen

by David Farland

  “Yes,” Everynne said.

  Jagget nodded. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  Gallen lay down on the floor, weary to the bone, thankful for a few minutes’ rest.

  A moment later, the door opened again. Gallen did not bother looking up, thinking that one of the Jaggets had entered the room. Suddenly Orick was beside him, licking Gallen’s face. “Top of the morning,” Orick grinned. “I see you ignored my warning and blundered right into the trap anyway.”

  “Orick!” Everynne shouted, rousing up in her bed. Gallen threw his arms around the bear. There was a white bandage on Orick’s shoulder, a look of pain in his eyes.

  “We thought you were dead,” Gallen said. “We found bones by the roadside.”

  “A friend,” Orick said soberly. “I left my message and was on my way home, dodging vanquisher patrols. My friend, Panta, stopped to pick me up on the highway, and the vanquishers caught us. She lost her wits and ran for cover. I was too weak to follow. Afterward, they brought me here for questioning, then left me with the Jaggets.”

  Gallen could tell that there was more than casual friendship involved with this she-bear. He could hear the hurt in Orick’s voice. “I’m sorry, my old friend,” Gallen offered. Orick limped over to Everynne, gave her a hug. They sat and talked quietly.

  Two soldiers brought in some plates of food. Gallen and Everynne sat on the bed and had a bite to eat. Veriasse paced, looking at the wall clock as he waited for Jagget.

  Minutes later, two Jaggets came into the room, escorting Maggie. She looked tired, worn, but she smiled in relief to see Gallen. She hugged him and whispered, “I am glad you’re well.”

  One of the Jaggets, an older man, was better dressed than the others Gallen had seen. Captain Jagget introduced him with great flourish as Primary Jagget.

  Veriasse stood in deference and said, “Primary Jagget, I thought you were dead.” Gallen could not miss the tone of respect in Veriasse’s voice. Veriasse glanced at Gallen and explained. “Primary Jagget is one of the great Lord Protectors of our time. He was a Lord Protector three thousand years before I was born.”

  Primary Jagget said softly, “I was a Lord Protector, Veriasse. Now, the dronon have conquered my world, taken my title and position. I have worn out my flesh and been forced to download myself into an artifice. The dronon would not even have allowed that, but for my clones. They have retained enough power to force an uneasy truce.”

  Primary Jagget clapped a hand on Veriasse’s shoulder. “I regret having detained you and your friends, and I regret the harm I’ve caused here. What I have done, I have done in order to protect my world and my people. I had to be sure of your intent.”

  Veriasse hesitated a moment. “I suspect that I would have done the same in your position.”

  Gallen sensed that much was being left unsaid between the two men, and he wondered what kind of relationship they had. They were both Lord Protectors, and though their interests ran afoul of each other, they shared a mutual respect.

  Primary Jagget begged them to be at ease, then knelt over Everynne, applied a flesh-colored salve to her neck, and rubbed it in until Gallen could hardly see the scar. When he finished, he stepped back and looked at Everynne admiringly, then bowed. “You are the exact image of your mother Semarritte. I had to come see you for myself. May you grow in power and grace and beauty. I wish you could stay and enjoy my hospitality, but I am afraid that I have just started a war in your behalf, and it will not be safe for you to remain.”

  “A war?” Veriasse asked.

  “The vanquishers must have learned you are here. They began moving in just moments ago. I’ve ordered my men to wipe out every vanquisher within three hundred kilometers,” Primary Jagget answered. “It has long been rumored that you built a gate to Dronon. I know the location of every gate on the planet. Tell me where you must travel, and I will clear a path for you.”

  “North, sixty kilometers,” Veriasse said.

  Primary Jagget raised a brow. “There isn’t a gate in that region.”

  “I disguised it so that it does not look like a regular gate,” Veriasse said. He glanced at Everynne. “We must go now.”

  “Wait a moment more,” Primary Jagget said. He reached into a fold of his brown jacket, pulled out a mantle. “This is the mantle I wore as a Lord Protector,” Jagget said. “I do not want it to fall into enemy hands. I would like you to take it. You have long been a Lord Protector yourself, and I doubt that there is much it could teach you. Still, when you battle the Lords of the Swarm, I would ask that you wear it. Perhaps it could be of help.”

  Veriasse took the gift. It was an ancient thing of black metal, not nearly so elegant as the mantle Veriasse had given to Gallen. Still, Veriasse took it for what it was, a symbol of hope.

  Chapter 18

  Primary Jagget took a quick survey of the room at the inn, as if he were checking to be sure he didn’t leave something when he departed. “We must hurry,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Five minutes,” Veriasse answered. “When we jump out of the gate, we will be on Dronon. Everynne should be dressed appropriately.”

  “A couple more minutes, then,” Primary Jagget said. “But hurry. Time is of the essence.”

  Everyone left the room but Veriasse and Everynne. Veriasse opened his pack, unfolded Everynne’s golden attire. The metallic robe was made of a flowing material that felt cool, almost watery under his touch. It had an odd sheen to it and was peculiarly heavy, as if it were actually made of microscopic ringlets of pure gold.

  Veriasse let his fingers play over the robe. It seemed somehow appropriate that Everynne should wear it this day. She truly was golden, the human equivalent of the dronon’s great queen. He had seen it in people’s eyes a thousand times: they would look at Everynne and respond with adoration. And though there were physiological reasons for their devotion, something in his bones whispered to Veriasse that mere science could not explain Everynne’s power over him. Everynne was sublime. Some said that she was perfect in figure, that the proportions of each bone in her body were designed to conform to some racial dream, an image of perfection shared by all. Others claimed that it was only a combination of scents that she exuded, a carefully selected range of pheromones that turned men into mindless creatures, willing to sacrifice themselves at her feet.

  But Everynne’s beauty seemed to him to be more than perfect. When she touched him, he shivered in ecstasy. When she spoke, something in her voice demanded attention, so that the softest words whispered in a noisy room would hold him riveted. Everynne transcended the hopes of the scientists who had created her, and in his weaker moments, Veriasse would have admitted that he believed she was supernatural. There was something mystical in the way she moved him, something holy in the way she could transform a man.

  And so, today she would wear gold, an appropriate color for the last Tharrin alive on the conquered worlds, the sole child of a race dead in this sector of the galaxy. When all was ready, he left the room. Everynne dressed quickly in her golden robes, boots, and gloves, then put on her mantle of golden ringlets. Though she was a woman, and fully as beautiful as any of her previous incarnations, Veriasse looked at her and thought that there was something special about this incarnation of Semarritte. Perhaps it was only her youthfulness. By having been force grown in the vats, she had attained the appearance of being twenty years old by the time she was two. Perhaps that was part of it: there was an innocence, a freshness to this incarnation that had been missing in the previous generations.

  When she finished dressing, she sat on her bed and smiled up at Veriasse, weakly, her face pale with fear. But for her expression, she looked the part of a queen. He said, “You look wonderful. You look radiant. Are you afraid?”

  Everynne nodded. Veriasse himself had great doubts about this plan. “You will do well today, my love,” Veriasse assured her. “Never has there been a woman more worthy to represent the human species in such a contest. I can only hope
that I shall be as worthy.

  Everynne took his hand, looked into his eyes. “I trust you,” she said. “If your devotion for me can grant you power, then I know you cannot be beaten today.”

  Veriasse kissed her hand, then they went outside to meet the others. Gallen, Orick, Maggie, and Jagget sat in front of the inn, straddling their airbikes. Far to the south, Veriasse heard a dim concussion, the sound of heavy artillery.

  “Hurry,” Primary Jagget whispered. “Every minute is costing the lives of my men.”

  Veriasse hopped on his bike, and Everynne climbed aboard hers. She was shaking, unsettled, and Veriasse would have reassured her, but she twisted the handlebars, revving her thrusters, and the rest of the group was forced to hurry to catch her.

  They roared over the highway, which was ominously devoid of traffic. Ten kilometers up the road, they came upon a magtruck that had exploded, throwing out the corpses of dead vanquishers, and two kilometers farther along, the whipped past a score of Jaggets lying dead by the roadside.

  Primary Jagget held his commlink to his mouth, shouting orders in his personal battle language, a code that was thick with nasal tones and grunts.

  Forty kilometers from the city, a wall of scintillating lights blossomed ahead to his right—portable shielding. Just beyond the shields, a curtain of flames and black smoke erupted.

  Dronon fliers—swift, saucer-shaped craft—whipped through the air at Mach 15, dropping ordnance on some unseen front. The very ground shook and buckled under the force of the assault, and Veriasse hoped that the saucers wouldn’t target them. Jagget screamed into his commlink, and a squadron of slower V-shaped fighters piloted by humans swerved from the north, perhaps forty strong. They would be no match for the dronon. They could only serve as a diversion.

  Veriasse and the others continued north for five kilometers, heading toward the front until a vast pall of smoke hung over the little party. It was nearly dark as night, yet Veriasse did not turn on his airbike’s headlights.

  They had not gone far into the cloud when Primary Jagget shouted to them, “Our front is collapsing ahead. My men can’t maintain it. Can we veer off the road?”

  “Yes,” Veriasse shouted. “There is a river to the right. We can follow it north.”

  Veriasse alone knew where the gate to Dronon lay. He wondered if he should tell the others its location. Two hundred years ago, he had ordered his men to build the gate. In trying to plant the destination markers at Dronon, he had lost three complete technical crews. Afterward, Semarritte had forbade him from trying to put more gates on Dronon, just as she had always forbade him from building a gate that would lead to her omni-mind. She said some risks were not worth taking. But unlike the gates of old, constructed in simpler times, this one was hidden. He had built it into the arch of a small bridge that spanned the river.

  He pictured the location, sent the thought to his mantle, ordered it to transmit the knowledge to Gallen. Gallen suddenly turned, caught Veriasse’s eye, then nodded.

  Two kilometers farther, the black clouds of soot began to thin. Suddenly light flashed across the sky far behind them, brighter than the sun, followed by a second blinding flash nearby. The light continued to glow redly through the sooty sky.

  “They’re using atomics!” Jagget shouted, and Veriasse glanced back. Mushroom clouds were forming where the inn had been, and again at a point perhaps nine kilometers behind. “Open your speed up.”

  Veriasse’s heart raced. They were still ten kilometers from the gate. The atomic bombs would raise a wall of dirty, swiftly moving air as the air superheated. The dust storm would rush away from the bomb site at over a hundred kilometers per hour—a speed impossible to match in such rough terrain. Yet if they did not beat that surging storm of radioactive dust, it would kill them all.

  “Vanquishers ahead!” Jagget shouted. On the highway ahead, two kilometers away, a convoy topped a steep hill. Veriasse swerved from the road into a snow-filled ravine, and the others followed. The airbikes kicked up rooster tails of snow, millions of tiny motes that glittered like slivers of ruby, reflecting the atomic fires behind.

  Veriasse began counting the seconds, listening for the blast, trying to discern exactly how far they were from the detonation site. Fifty seconds later, the air filled with a high-pitched shriek, indicating that the Jagget’s shields had collapsed, followed by a deep booming.

  The ground rumbled and rolled in waves. To the northeast, a volcano began to spit a sluggish flow of lava down its sides.

  The airbikes raced over a rise, down a rock-strewn gully, then swept onto a river, skating over flattened stones and lead-gray water that reflected the winter sky and the towering mushroom clouds that filled the heavens behind them like elementals of flame.

  Veriasse glanced at his speedometer. They were traveling at only seventy kilometers an hour—fast over such uneven terrain, but not fast enough. He opened his throttle. “Faster,” he shouted.

  The river was an old one, and canyon walls soon rose around them as they surged through a narrow gorge. Veriasse’s speed hit a hundred and twenty. Everynne pulled ahead of him. She had her head low to combat wind resistance. She threw a trail of icy water in his face, and he only hoped that she could make it as she raced ahead.

  Time and again she flirted with death, weaving through the rocky gorge, taking corners so fast that she was only a hair’s breadth from destruction. For eight more minutes they raced, and whenever they reached a straight portion of the river, Veriasse would glance back, each time hoping anew that the others had negotiated the last turn. Maggie’s bike was both slow and dangerously unstable with the bear on it. Jagget stayed at the far end of the train, bringing up the rear.

  The gate to Dronon waited for them somewhere ahead at the end of a wide bend. Through his mantle, Jagget transmitted a message: “We have pursuers behind me.” Veriasse glanced back, thinking the saucers would be shooting overhead. He saw no saucers—only a great black wall of dust rushing toward them, the frontal tide of the nuclear storm.

  Veriasse rounded a corner. Ahead, the river stretched straight for a kilometer, its troubled waters winking in the sunlight. At the far end spanned a bridge, a simple monstrosity of gray plasteel arching over the river. Veriasse looked at it, and his heart fell. The gate was built into a bridge, but he could not remember ever having seen this one before. Was this the bridge? “Everynne,” he shouted, “initiate your key.”

  Everynne reached into the pack behind her, fumbled for a moment, and slowed her bike as she grabbed the key.

  Veriasse slowed, pulled beside her, glanced back. Gallen whizzed past them, followed by the bike with Maggie and Orick on it. Orick’s eyes were wide in terror, and the bear’s tongue lolled from his mouth.

  Jagget held up the rear, and as he rounded the corner, he looked at Veriasse and Everynne in surprise, slowed his throttle at the mouth of the narrow bend. He whipped out his incendiary rifle with one hand, raised it in salute to Veriasse.

  Everynne took the key firmly in hand, opened up her throttle, and Veriasse followed directly behind, drenched by plumes of freezing water.

  Everynne thumbed the unlocking sequence. Ahead a silver light began to glow beneath the bridge. Behind them, Veriasse heard vanquishers whoop in delight as they rounded the corner. He glanced back.

  Three vanquishers in aircars whipped down the river channel, negotiating the tight turn.

  Primary Jagget fired his rifle, and pure white light shot down the river. A vanquisher burst into flame, and his burning car screamed toward Jagget.

  Another vanquisher swerved to avoid the explosion, and his car erupted into a fireball as it smashed against the canyon walls. The last in line killed his throttle, and his car slowed and bogged down in the water.

  Jagget did not have time to avoid the burning car that hurtled toward him. In less than a heartbeat, his body transformed into a swarm of butterflies that lifted above the collision.

  Overhead, the nuclear winds roared toward them all, a
black tumult. Veriasse turned to face ahead. Maggie, Orick, and Gallen plunged through the gate while Everynne slowed to match Veriasse’s speed. As he hurtled toward the gate, Veriasse spared one last glance back. The last hapless vanquisher had stalled his aircar. He frantically struggled to restart it as the black storm swept over him.

  Then came the white and the void, and Veriasse felt the kiss of the cold breeze that blew in this crack between time and space. He could feel the fabric of his robes whipped by the gale, but there was no sound, no seeing here. Instead, there was only a rushing sensation. The hand of a god lifted him to a distant place.

  When his vision cleared, a drab plain sprawled before them, filled with pockmarks and covered with rocks. Thin clouds made the sky a dim reddish gray. The air was hot and sticky. He could see no buildings, no roads or any other signs of habitation—only desolation.

  A soft wind sighed over the ground, and Veriasse began to recognize that there was some plant life around, a deep gray-brown fungus that grew in tight knots like rosebuds. Things that he’d first taken to be pale rocks also proved to be fat, fanlike plants of palest blue, and the pockmarks in the ground were so numerous that they could not have been formed by any natural means that he knew of. They could only have been formed by the walking hive fortresses of the dronon.

  “Where do we go now?” Maggie said.

  Veriasse turned to Gallen. “Which way is magnetic north?”

  Gallen consulted the sensors in his mantle, nodded to his right. The sun lay to their southeast. Obviously, winter was coming to this section of the world. The walking hives would be migrating.

  “North,” Veriasse said. “Look for fresh pockmarks in the ground. Maybe we can track a hive.”

  They hit the thrusters, let the airbikes carry them over the gloomy terrain. They saw only a few animals—often things that looked like a conglomeration of sticks could be seen sunning themselves or dragging pieces of vegetable matter to their burrows.

  Once they came to a cloud of round, slightly opaque gray leaves that fluttered slowly over the landscape; it wasn’t until the leaves splattered against the windscreen of his bike that Veriasse saw that they were some kind of winged insect, with tiny red heads attached to a single wing. He could not imagine how the creature sustained flight.