“Fine,” said Pizzle, “but that’s not going to be easy. He could be anywhere.” He turned to Yarden. “How about it, Madame Mindreader?”
Yarden closed her eyes and touched her forehead with the fingertips of her right hand. She stood motionless for a few seconds and then announced, “It’s Saecaraz! I couldn’t hold him; he’s scared, and his awareness is shifting all over the place. But there’s a huge square right in the center and this massive pyramid—all these tiers stacked atop each other—Threl High Chambers. I think he’s heading for Saecaraz. I’m almost sure of it.”
“That makes sense—he must be doing okay breathing-wise. Now where is Saecaraz?”
The Fieri looked at one another, and at the Travelers. “Don’t look at me,” said Pizzle. “I spent most of my time down there knee-deep in, ah … effluent. I don’t know where Saecaraz is.”
Yarden scrunched up her face in thought. “I went there once with the Chryse. I think I’d recognize it if I saw it again. From this vantage, the square and the pyramid should be fairly obvious.”
Bohm said, “I will instruct the fleet to remain suspended in formation. We will go down for a closer look.”
“We’d better find him fast,” warned Pizzle. “It’s going to be chaos down there once people start coming around.”
SEVENTY-SIX
Treet made his way as quickly and carefully as possible through the debris and wreckage of the Old Section. He had only one hope: to reach Jamrog as swiftly as possible and take him prisoner. Then he would force the Supreme Director, on pain of death, to call off the Invisibles and stop the war. Toward that end, he had secured a large and extremely lethal-looking weapon from one of the dead Invisibles on the battlefield.
His first thought was that every one of the enemy troops had been killed by falling chunks of crystal—some of which were fifty meters or so on a side. But upon investigation, he was amazed to discover that many had survived. His next thought was to disarm the survivors so that when the rebels came around they’d have the upper hand. The only problem with that idea was that it would take far too long to find each and every Invisible survivor and collect all the weapons—what if they started waking up before he got finished? Also, it was highly unlikely that all the Invisibles were on the battlefield when Dome collapsed. There was sure to be a central command post close by with reinforcements waiting to go into battle. And what about all the other Invisibles scattered throughout the Hages?
Then Treet hit on the solution of reaching Jamrog before the effects of free-breathing Empyrion’s atmosphere wore off. Bypass the chain of command and go right to the top. Jamrog, he guessed, would be found in the Supreme Director’s kraam.
How to get to Saecaraz in time, though, was the problem. The devastation was almost certain to be worse in Dome’s interior: whole buildings and Hageblocks demolished, galleries, commons, and arcade areas crushed beneath tons of rubble, wreckage choking the streets …
But he didn’t have to go overland—he would go under: the tunnel leading to the Saecaraz refuse pits. That would take him very close to his destination, Threl High Chambers.
He scrambled as quickly as possible over the battlefield, which was littered with jumbled slabs of crystal tossed in an infinity of angles. He kept calm, telling himself that if he broke his neck hurrying, Jamrog would have the last laugh. So he went quickly, but cautiously enough to keep from impaling himself on the jagged shards.
Once, as he was clambering over a heap of fallen brickwork, he heard the throb of a balon’s engines and caught a glimpse of a Fieri airship plowing past, too far away to notice him. It disappeared among the ruins to the north, stirring up the old frustration of watching salvation drift lightly and casually by, a reminder of the bleak hopelessness he’d felt in the desert when the balons had sailed right over him and his companions without stopping.
He reached New America Square, although he had to take a good look around in order to be certain that was indeed where he was. The nearly collapsed buildings were gone, and the entire area was covered by a single flat pane of crystal over which one of the gigantic support poles had fallen. Treet grappled to the top of the pole and proceeded on. The pole was grooved, so his feet didn’t slip, and he was able to run easily along the top—like jogging on a giant redwood log or tubetrain conduit.
A few minutes later, owing to the fact that he was able to travel in a straight line above the wreckage, he arrived at the entrance to the Saecaraz tunnel. Don’t let it be caved in, he muttered between clenched teeth as he climbed down the side of the fibersteel pole.
It was not caved in, but the entrance was blocked by a vehicle which had been caught halfway out of the tunnel; the whole back end was smashed flat by a section of wall. Treet squeezed by the junk and was able to edge in. Once inside the tunnel, he found another vehicle—this one intact, with four unconscious Invisibles inside. He hauled them out, jumped behind the wheel, put his foot to the pedal, and sped off. The tunnel had been repaired since the rebels destroyed it, so the Invisibles could bring vehicles through. Treet had very little difficulty in navigating the conduit, although it was pitch dark most of the way.
Upon reaching the Saecaraz refuse pits at the other end, however, he almost despaired of ever making it to Jamrog’s kraam. He emerged from the refuse pit to look upon a scene reminiscent of the Great Tokyo Earthquake: an entire city shaken, stirred, and ground to tiny pieces fit only for landfill.
But ahead, rising from the wreckage like a building-block pyramid that had somehow escaped being toppled when all the other building blocks fell, stood Threl High Chambers, massive and gray and looking distinctly shabby in the dazzling light of day.
In fact, the whole of Dome—that is, those few structures remaining at least partially intact—had taken on a decidedly declasse appearance. While it was never a cheery place to begin with, true, unfiltered daylight revealed its flaws. Treet was struck by the incredible dullness and sameness and meanness of its architecture. Dome appeared, as never before, what it truly was: a place designed by petty, brutish men in whom the love of life, of goodness, beauty, and vitality had long since vanished.
Funny, he thought, it had always been so well hidden before. Now, however, as pure light washed over the exposed interior, the baseness of Dome was revealed in all its perverse grandeur.
Treet puzzled over this as he made his way to Jamrog’s kraam. Off in the distance he could see several sections of Dome’s roof that had not caved in. They arched over the ruins, ragged edges glinting in the sun, looking very fragile—as if one touch, one breath might bring them crashing down to make the destruction complete.
The Fieri balons still hovered above. What were they waiting for? he wondered.
Threl Square lay buried under a solid mass of splintered crystal, fallen with such force that it had pulverized the stone beneath. Several of the great banners bearing Jamrog’s imposing image remained upright, although they were shredded beyond recognition. He hurried across the square and ducked under the columns, glancing apprehensively upward. The lower tiers of the building had caught the most damage, many of the upper terraces having been torn away to fall on the ones below.
Once inside, however, he forced down his fear of the building’s collapse and made his way to the lift. He remembered the Supreme Director’s kraam as being on one of the upper levels, but didn’t remember which one. It took him a few minutes, and a few false tries, to find it, only to discover that it was empty.
Now what? he wondered. Time was running out. Everyone would come to any minute. He couldn’t count on being able to move around freely much longer.
Jamrog must be nearby. If not in his kraam, then where?
Treet decided to take the lift to the top and start down from there. The minute he stepped out of the capsule onto the uppermost level he knew he’d guessed right. The garden looked as if a hurricane had swept through. The miniature trees were broken, the shrubbery tattered, the grounds strewn with anomalous junk. But there, in the
center lay two bodies—and one of them was Jamrog’s.
He approached cautiously.
The Supreme Director was quite dead. Even without the knife handle sticking out of the chest, Treet knew at a glance. The filmy, blank stare, the slack, open mouth, the utterly vacant appearance—like that of a birdcage whose feathered inhabitant had flown—the look he’d come to know so well in the last weeks, told all. Wherever Jamrog was, he was no longer among the living.
He sighed and tossed aside his weapon. How do you threaten a corpse?
Treet was so immersed in the quandary of what to do next, he failed to notice the shadow creeping toward him over the broken ground. But he heard the rustle of clothing and the whistling sound of something flying through the air toward him, and ducked.
The meter-long splinter of crystal sliced by him and dug a furrow in the grass. Treet rolled to his knees to face his attacker, and his heart went cold with fear. Mrukk stood but three steps away, red-eyed, panting heavily, blood trickling at the comers of his mouth.
Treet took in Mrukk and his own discarded weapon in the same glance. He threw himself toward it, falling awkwardly over Jamrog’s body, reaching the gun just as Mrukk scooped it up.
The Mors Ultima leveled the weapon at him, sneered wickedly, and said in a low, raspy voice, “You’ll have to do better than that, Fieri, if you plan to take over Empyrion.”
Treet sat up slowly. “Look around you, Mrukk. It’s finished. The Fieri have already taken over.” Treet wished he could have said the words with more conviction, but his heart was beating so fast, he was lucky to be able to speak at all.
Mrukk glowered at him, shook his head as if to clear it, and spoke again with pain. “You think that matters to me? Ask Jamrog.” He indicated the body beside Treet. “Now, Fieri, you will join him.”
With that he pressed the gun’s pressure plate. Treet saw Mrukk’s palm flatten and closed his eyes. There was a faint fizzling sound, and a plume of smoke issued from the throw-probe. That was all.
Mrukk shoved the useless thing barrel-first at Treet and then dove for him. Treet pitched forward and rolled to the side, landing once more on Jamrog. Mrukk’s fingers were around his throat before he could squirm away.
He grasped Mrukk’s hands and tried to dislodge them from his windpipe, but Mrukk’s thumbs pressed down mercilessly. Treet tried to scream and could not; his air was cut off. His vision blurred, and he felt his mind growing fuzzy. It seemed as if he was drifting away from the scene, losing touch with his body— except for the fact that something hard was digging into his back, under his left shoulderblade.
Using all his strength, Treet shifted his weight and managed to slide off the hard thing a little so that it was only digging into his side. He could feel himself slipping, consciousness fading. But the thing jabbing him in the side was uncomfortable. With his good right hand he felt for the cause of his discomfort so as to pull it away.
His hand closed on the handle of Mrukk’s knife.
Treet didn’t know what happened next. His vision cleared, and he saw an extremely surprised Mrukk rise up and fall backward. Air rushed into Treet’s lungs in long, raking gasps. He rolled off Jamrog’s body and discovered the gun, his gun. He picked it up.
Mrukk squirmed on the ground, his hands clutching at the knife which had somehow become embedded in his left shoulder.
“That’s enough,” wheezed Treet. “Lie still. I don’t want to kill you.”
Mrukk cursed and looked up, saw the faulty weapon in Treet’s hand, and laughed. The fog had lifted enough by now for Treet to realize that he’d made a very silly, yet very fatal mistake: the gun was a dud.
Mrukk laughed again, a short, sharp bark that brought tears to his eyes, and then flung himself at Treet’s legs. Treet staggered backward, his right ankle firmly in Mrukk’s grasp. He landed on his rump and the gun in his hand discharged, sending a blazing bolt skyward.
Mrukk stopped laughing.
Treet aimed the weapon carefully at Mrukk.
“Fun time’s over,” rasped Treet. “We’ve got a lot to do, and I don’t have time to mess around. You’re going to cooperate, or you’ll be one sorry buckaroo, comprende?”
He edged close and plucked the knife from Mrukk’s shoulder. A spasm of pain contorted the Mors Ultima’s face. “Feel better now?” Treet asked, tucking the knife into the waistband of his yos.
Just then he heard a gravelly groan and noticed that the body lying next to Jamrog was moving. Keeping his eye on Mrukk, he rolled the body over with his foot. “Director Diltz, isn’t it? Why yes, I remember you. Welcome to the party.”
Diltz moaned pitifully and cringed away from the gun.
“That’s right,” said Treet. “I’m not too good with one of these things, so you’ll want to go easy. We’ve all had enough excitement for one day.”
“What do you want?” asked Mrukk flatly.
“Stop the Invisibles,” stated Treet. “That’ll do for starters. Then we’re going to go down to Cavern level and open some cells. We’re closing down the torture shops. Like I said, it’s over. Kaput. Finis.”
“Kill me,” rasped Mrukk. “I won’t do it.”
Evidently the Mors Ultima did not intimidate easily, and Mrukk had called Treet’s bluff. He had no plan for stopping the assault of the Invisibles without Mrukk. They were deadlocked.
“Killing you would be too easy, too quick,” said Treet. “Get on your feet. We’re all going for a little stroll.”
Treet felt no hope of getting back before the fighting resumed, but there was no better option but to return to the Old Section and force the Invisibles to stop the battle or forfeit their leader’s life. Keeping the gun on Mrukk he shouted, “Diltz, get up. Take off your yos and tear it into strips. Hurry! We don’t want to miss the opening credits.”
Diltz stripped off his yos and began tearing it. When he had a few long strips, Treet said, “That’s enough. Wrap one of those around his shoulder so he doesn’t bleed to death before I’ve had my fun. Then tie his hands.” He waved the weapon at Mrukk. “Tie them good, because I’m going to check your work.”
The Nilokerus did as he was told, bandaging the bleeding shoulder and binding Mrukk’s hands behind him while the Mors Ultima glared death and cursed. Treet was saved from having to figure out how to tie Diltz’s hands without taking the gun off Mrukk by the sound of balon engines droning nearer.
He looked up to see the huge red sphere of the Fieri craft gliding over them. He fired another blast into the air as a signal, and a moment later the airship spun on its axis and began its descent. The balon landed in the center of the garden, bouncing lightly as it kissed the earth. Before the craft had settled, before the ramp was fully down, there was Yarden, running toward him, with Pizzle a close second, and Jaire, Preben, and Talus scarcely a step behind.
Yarden took in the situation at a glance. “We saw your signal and came as quickly as possible. Are you okay?”
Treet nodded, his throat suddenly constricted by a very big lump. “I’m fine.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
“How can we help?” Yarden asked, her eyes straying to Jamrog’s whitened corpse. “It looks like this situation is under control.”
“I promised these boys a ride in the balon if they behaved,” said Treet, handing the knife to Preben. “Watch the big one—he’s got an attitude problem.” He turned to Pizzle. “You’d better tie up Diltz there. He’s bound to think of trying something slick.”
Talus said, “Tell us what you want us to do.”
“Gladly. But first things first; we’ve got a pressing engagement elsewhere. I’ll explain on the way.”
They arrived in the Old Section a few minutes later and landed on the battlefield in the midst of a handful of very distracted Invisibles. Treet pushed Mrukk down the ramp ahead of him and called to them. “We have your commander. Throw down your weapons.”
The Invisibles glanced uneasily at one another. Despite the shock of seeing a Fieri holding their com
mander prisoner, they made no move to disarm themselves. “Tell them, Mrukk,” insisted Treet. “No more killing.”
Mrukk steadfastly refused to open his mouth. “Jamrog is dead,” Treet continued, calling to the Invisibles. “Dome is under new management. You are ordered to throw down yours weapons and surrender.”
The Invisibles paid no attention to his speech, and instead began advancing slowly toward him. Treet wished he had thought of a better plan.
“Halt!” The word was raw, but forceful.
Treet turned his head to see Tvrdy, Cejka, and Kopetch coming around the near side of the balon. Behind them were thirty disgruntled rebels, each with a weapon trained on an enemy. The Invisibles needed no more convincing. Hardware clattered to the ground, and the rebels wasted no time gathering it up.
Tvrdy approached, his eyes full of questions, looking at Treet as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know how this has happened,” he said in a voice that sounded as if he had been gargling acid, “but I think you are responsible.” He embraced Treet with the arm that wasn’t holding a weapon.
“Thank you for saving our lives,” said Cejka in a rough whisper.
Treet beamed at them both. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get back here in time.” He glanced at Mrukk—who was currently wearing the classic expression of a man who has suddenly remembered an important appointment elsewhere—and told Tvrdy, “Here, I brought you a present. Maybe you can think of a way to make him talk.”
“What do you want him to say?” asked Tvrdy, squinting with pain as he spoke.
“He has a lot of people locked up. How about letting him talk about that?”
“Good,” Tvrdy said. “Anything else?”
“Take Diltz here to the Archives. If I’m not mistaken, the magicians are up to some funny business there. He’ll want to help you all he can, I’m sure. Pizzle, you go with him.”
“Right, Chief,” said Pizzle.
“I’ll see to it,” promised Cejka.
Treet turned and waved to the balon.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 46