Pradim pushed past Treet and flew to the fork, motioning those behind to hurry, then ran into the downward-bending tunnel. Treet pushed everyone ahead of him and followed, allowing Tvrdy to bring up the rear. After many branchings and turns, Pradim stopped to listen. There were no sounds of the chase; no one was behind them.
They pressed on and in a few minutes came to a rectangular room with a round railing in the center. In the floor below the railing was a hatch. From the debris on the floor and the cobwebs hanging in filthy sheets from the pipes in the ceiling, it appeared that no one had entered the room for decades. Pradim opened the hatch and dropped through the hole. One by one the fugitives followed. A steel ladder joined the two levels, the lower one of which appeared to be a water conduit of some size, though dry and apparently unused.
Large grated drains opened in the sides and bottom of the conduit at regular intervals of twenty-five meters. Pradim counted them as they passed each one and stopped at the twelfth. He reached up and tugged on the grate, and surprisingly the heavy steel cover came off without effort. Pradim tossed it aside, and it bounced soundlessly. Plastic, thought Treet. He wondered how many other such doctored escape routes existed throughout Empyrion’s endless tangle of byways.
Blind Pradim hoisted himself up into the oval opening and turned to lift down his hands to Calin and Yarden in turn; Pizzle came next and then Treet and Tvrdy. They crawled on hands and knees in near total darkness for an eternity. Treet’s kneecaps and the heels of his hands grew tender and then sore and then painful before the conduit angled upward slightly and then entered a brightly-lit room containing a row of enormous valves—all peeling paint and rusting.
Directly above the valves was a circular opening with a steel ladder leading to a hatch like the one they had dropped through earlier. Pradim, wasting no time, grabbed the first rung, pulled himself up, and disappeared through the hatch. When Treet joined the others, he emerged to find himself in a closet just off a main corridor. Pradim was missing.
“Have you remembered the code?” asked Tvrdy in a tense whisper.
“I think so. We’ll soon find out.”
Pradim came soundlessly back and motioned for them to follow him. They entered a blue-tiled corridor, and Treet recognized at once that they were near the Archives guard station. In a moment they turned a corner. Two Nilokerus sat leaning against the wall, their legs out stiff in front of them, weapons clutched in their hands. Although their eyes looked straight ahead, they did not see the fugitives hurry past.
“Dead?” wondered Treet aloud.
“No. Sonic immobilizer,” explained Tvrdy. “They will tell those after us that we did not pass this way. Still, we must hurry; they’ll only be restrained a few seconds.”
Treet turned his attention to the first set of doors, walked to the lock plate, and studied the pentagon of lighted tabs. “Here goes nothing.” He raised his index finger.
“Wait!” Yarden pushed up beside him. “I can help you remember correctly.”
“How?”
“Shh! Close your eyes and concentrate on the tabs.”
Treet closed his eyes and tried to think of how he had pressed the code tabs before. All he remembered was walking through a succession of doors, dreaming of what might be locked away on the other side of the last one. He distinctly did not remember pressing the buttons. “Sorry,” he said.
“Concentrate! You pressed them correctly once. Your mind remembers. Picture yourself pressing them in sequence. Feel the tabs.”
Treet closed his eyes once more, but now all he was aware of was the nearness of Yarden Talazac and the warmth of her breath on his neck. “It’s not go—” he began, then felt her cool fingertips on his closed eyelids.
“Picture it exactly as it happened,” she said softly.
Treet saw himself approach the big doors, saw his hand reach out for the first tab, was aware of Calin beside him and the ridiculous priest behind, watching nervously—he had not noticed that before—and felt again the surge of excitement at what lay ahead. He saw the first tab as his finger moved toward it.
The sound of pounding feet echoed in the corridor behind them. “They’re coming!” said Pizzle.
“Got it!” said Treet and pressed the first lighted tab. The light went out.
“Go on,” said Yarden calmly. “You will remember.”
Treet closed his eyes and again felt her fingertips on his eyes. “Okay!” He pressed a second tab and the light went off. “Two down, three more to go.”
“Get on with it!” squeaked Pizzle. Their pursuers sounded closer.
Treet raised his finger, and the third tab blinked off.
“They’re almost on us!” cried Pizzle.
“I’m doing the best I can!” replied Treet through gritted teeth.
“They’re here!” shouted Pradim as a squad of Invisibles rushed into the guard station behind them. He pulled a cone-shaped device from the folds of his yos, moved to the doorway, and aimed.
A fizzling crack split the air, and the cone device exploded in a shower of sparks in the guide’s hand. Pradim turned toward the others and raised an empty sleeve. Where his hand had been, only two nub ends of clean white bone remained. His face went gray, and he lurched forward. Calin grabbed him and pulled him away from the open doorway as a second shot sent chunks of the door frame ricocheting around them.
“We’re going to be killed!” screamed Pizzle.
Treet stabbed at the fourth tab, and it went off. “I remembered!” he hollered as he smacked the last button. The locking mechanism clicked open. Treet and Tvrdy attacked the door and heaved it open a crack.
Firebolts streaked the air. Scorching metal and stinging hot debris pelted into them. Somehow they all shoved through the slim opening at once and threw themselves at the door to close it as sparks and cinders rained in upon them.
Treet remembered the next code easily—it was a simple variation on the first. He stabbed the tabs, the lock clicked open, and they all pressed through and shouldered the door closed behind them.
“That was a little too close,” said Pizzle, his body shaking as much as his voice.
Yarden and Calin stood with Pradim, wrapping improvised bandages on his raw stump. But there was little blood—the weapon had cauterized the wound. The guide’s face had gone dead white, and his body trembled oddly; he seemed not to know where he was.
“The doors will slow them down,” said Tvrdy. “Until they find the code.”
“How long?”
“Who can say? Rohee is the only one who knows it—besides you.”
“Would he give it to them?”
Pradim moaned. The pain was beginning to hit him. Calin sat him down and took his head in her hands. She spoke to him in low, whispered tones, and he slumped forward. “He will sleep for a time,” she said.
Tvrdy nodded gravely and said, “I am certain Rohee knows nothing of what is taking place this night. He would not move against another Director like this. At least he would observe Directorate Conventions. But Jamrog might dare to use other means to gain entrance.”
“Such as?”
“They could put a code-breaker on the lock,” offered Pizzle. “With only five code digits it would take a good computer just a matter of minutes to click through all the permutations.”
Treet turned on him. “Whose side are you on?”
“We ought to know all the possibilities,” Pizzle replied, unrebuffed. “Don’t you think?”
Tvrdy agreed. “Such devices exist.”
“Then we have only a few minutes. We’d better get moving.”
Tvrdy lifted Pradim onto his shoulders, and the fugitives fled through the succession of doors as quickly as possible and at last entered the Archives. Tvrdy stepped across the threshold and lay the unconscious guide down, covering him with his outer cloak. Then he turned to stand in quiet amazement, gazing at everything around him. “It is like looking into the past,” he said in hushed tones.
“Sure,” sa
id Treet. “Take the tour later. Right now why don’t we try to find these vehicles you say we can’t live without, and we’ll be going.”
Tvrdy stepped lightly down the concentric ring of ledges onto the floor of the Archives, found a pathway, and disappeared into the welter of junk piled with haphazard care throughout the vast expanse.
“Okay, everybody,” called Treet, “spread out and make a noise if you see anything that looks like it might put some distance between us and those goons out there.”
“Look at all this stuff!” shouted Pizzle as he dove into it. “Just like the old Smithsonian!”
Yarden chose a pathway and moved off quickly. Calin knelt over Pradim, laid her hands on his head once more, and then joined Treet. “Nho helped us once,” said Treet. “Would he do it again?” Calin nodded and grew still.
“This way,” she replied, striking off toward the middle of the room.
Fifteen minutes, and two mystical consultations later, Calin stopped and pointed to a row of shroud-covered humps next to the great doors that opened beneath the landing platform. “Hey!” cried Treet. “Everybody! Over here!”
Pizzle stumbled up. Tvrdy and Yarden, who had also heard Treet’s cry, arrived moments later. Pizzle went to the first hump and yanked off the shrouds, stirring a veritable fog of the fine, gray powder. When the fog subsided he was leaning against the hood of a strange machine, grinning. “Nice, don’t you think?” He sounded like an antique car dealer showing off his latest acquisition.
“What is it?” Treet peered doubtfully at the elongated red-orange machine before him and at its two blue-and-black companions standing a little way off.
“Transportation,” said Pizzle grandly, adding, “I’m almost sure of it.”
Tvrdy squatted to peer at the underside. “What do you think?” asked Treet.
“Excellent!” cried Tvrdy. “You have found them. I had forgotten about the blades.”
“The blades?” Treet stared at the vehicle. On either side of a narrow, open-aired passenger compartment, two long, thin runners swept down from the pointed nose to flare like curved sabers along the full length of the vehicle. The contraption looked more like a skinny, old-fashioned sleigh with its runners flattened and turned on edge than anything else Treet could think of.
There were three humps in the floor of the passenger compartment which corresponded to three, ball-shaped flexible wheels, which were made of overlapping metallic bands. The ungainly craft balanced precariously on these wheels, tilting back and forth on the runner-blades.
“Yes, you will need these,” Tvrdy was saying as he pointed to two other vehicles exactly like the first. All three showed signs of wear and tear—places where the paint was worn to the metal, scratches and dents, torn seat cushions. Obviously the machines had seen heavy use in their day—whenever that had been. “I had also forgotten the sand.”
“Sand?”
Calin spoke up. “There is a legend about a great sand sea between Empyrion and Fierra.”
“A desert. Of course. Just what we need.”
Calin, eyes turned inward, began reciting:
“On blades that race the sea is cut,
And scattered by the skimmer’s wake.
On and on, the dune sea rolls
White gold in endless waves.”
She came out of her trance and explained, “Nho says it is from an old song.”
“Great,” Treet frumped. “Well, do we wait for those lovely lads out there to figure out a way to get in here, or do we make a graceful exit?”
In the skimmers they found an assortment of blue, red, and green singletons much like the ones they had been wearing when they arrived on Empyrion. Treet was the first to start stripping off his yos. Pizzle found one near his size and squirmed out of his yos too. “Come on, ladies. No time to be shy,” remarked Treet, stuffing a leg into the garment. “Get some real clothes on.” He flipped two of the smaller-sized jumpsuits to Calin and Yarden.
When they hesitated, he explained, “Look, I’m not much of an explorer, but I’ve been on a few excursions, and we don’t know what kind of conditions we’re likely to find out there. But whatever it is, we’re better off dressed for the occasion. Okay?”
Yarden nodded and ducked behind a large louver panel. Calin shrugged and began pulling off her yos. Treet turned his back discreetly and met Tvrdy as he returned from making his check of the vehicles, carrying bubble helmets and atmosphere canisters under his arms.
“Aw, do we need those?” whined Pizzle.
“It is advisable.” Tvrdy handed helmets around. “We would not think to move outside the dome without a breather pack.”
“How long are these packs good for?” asked Treet. The helmets looked brand new and never used. Strange to think they were likely several thousand years old.
“Five hundred hours. I have put replacement canisters for each of you in the skimmer compartments.”
“That gives us—” Treet began calculating.
“Twenty days per canister,” said Pizzle.
“We ought to be able to find the lost tribes in forty days, eh?” It certainly seemed like a long enough time to be wandering around in the wilderness. He turned to Tvrdy. “What do we do when we come back? How do we get in touch with you?”
“Come back here to this entrance.” Tvrdy indicated the massive fibersteel doors before them. “There is a code lock on the outside. Press it and I will come to meet you or send someone.”
“Fine, but I don’t know the code and neither do you.”
“It doesn’t matter. All locks are monitored in Tanais Hage. When someone attempts an inappropriate code, a warning signal is tripped. We will know you are here.”
Treet looked at Tvrdy for a long time and then said, “You sure you wouldn’t rather come with us? You might live longer.”
Tvrdy smiled grimly. “I’ll survive. Once he knows that you have escaped, Jamrog will not persist on this course. I will bring charges against him before the other Directors, and he will deny them, and that will be that—for a while.”
“Whatever you say. We’ll be back as soon as possible. I can’t promise anything, but we’ll do all we can to bring help.”
“We will await your return, Hageman Treet. Tanais priests will offer benefices to the outland spirits for your safety.” Tvrdy seemed about to say something else, but turned quickly away, donned a bubble helmet, and moved to a pedestal near the great curving door. He pulled off the cloth covering the pedestal and studied the mechanism.
“Everybody ready?” said Treet. Pizzle, Calin, and Yarden stood lined up behind him. All were wearing singletons and had their helmets under their arms with breather packs attached. “Okay, let’s get ‘em on.”
Helmets in place, Treet gave Tvrdy a signal, and the Director punched a button on the console. Nothing happened. He tapped it again, but the door did not budge. Without a word, Calin went to the pedestal and placed her hands on it. A moment later the doors ground into motion on huge, complaining rollers, sliding apart slowly, ponderously.
Treet went to the nearest vehicle and climbed on, settling himself in the driver’s seat. There was a joystick affair for steering and two pedals on the floor which could not be reached with his feet unless he stood. He puzzled over this arrangement for a moment before realizing that passengers were intended to straddle the central humps and ride the skimmers like camel jockeys. Portions of the long cushioned seat flipped up for backrests. With joystick in hand, the driver pressed the pedals with his knees—though what the pedals did, Treet had yet to discover.
Pizzle stood close and pointed to the panel under the stubby windscreen. “They’re electric,” he said. “With solid-fuel assist generators.”
“I can read,” Treet pointed out. “Get ready. You and Yarden take that one; Calin and I will take this one.” He indicated the sleek blue-and-black skimmer nearby. “And you better let Yarden drive.” Pizzle flapped his arms in protest, but Treet cut him short, saying, “You don’t have
your glasses, remember?” Pizzle snorted, but climbed on the vehicle behind Yarden.
Pale, watery light spilled in from the widening crack as the doors inched apart. Treet pressed the ignition plate, and the machine trembled to life beneath him with a sound like the whine of a ramjet turbine. Calin scrambled up behind Treet and pulled a strap across her hips, raising two handgrips into position near her arms. Treet nodded and gave a thumbs-up signal to Yarden, who acknowledged it with a wave.
The doors slid slowly open and as Treet eased back on the joystick, inching the skimmer forward, he glanced up just in time to see black shapes boiling in through the gap. He saw Tvrdy rush forward. Someone shouted.
Treet jerked the joystick back and the skimmer lurched forward, stuttered, and died.
The black shapes swarmed around them, cutting off their only escape. Treet cursed and hit the ignition plate. Nothing. A hand snaked out and grabbed him by the wrist before he could hit it again.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Treet wrenched his arm away, but it was held fast. With his heart thumping triple time, he yelled for help, cutting his cry short in mid-yelp, for he witnessed a strange thing: Tvrdy running forward and embracing one of the attackers. Traitor! thought Treet. He has sold us out!
But no, they turned and came toward him together, Tvrdy slapping the side of his helmet. Treet found the radio switch on the neck and tapped it. A squawk of static burst in his ears, and out of the noise Tvrdy’s voice emerged saying, “Cejka could not reach us. He and his men have been waiting for us outside.”
Relief washed over Treet as the meaning of Tvrdy’s words broke upon him.
“Crocker!” Pizzle leaped from his skimmer and ran to where Rumon Hagemen escorted a lanky figure through the door.
The pilot leaned heavily on those supporting him as he shuffled into the Archives. “Crocker, can you hear me?” asked Treet, throwing himself from the skimmer and rushing forward. “You okay?”
Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra Page 27