Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome

by Stephen Lawhead

  Inside the airship, Yarden saw him and said, “There’s his signal. It’s over!”

  Bohm flipped a switch on the panel before him and said, “All balon pilots: you are free to land. Begin establishing aid stations in the designated areas.”

  At his word, the Fieri balons began descending into the ruins. The siege of Dome was over.

  Giloon Bogney saw the balon coming toward him; he gathered up his bhuj and strode toward the alien craft purposefully. The last few hours had been extremely trying for him. Leading an exodus of eleven thousand Dhogs out of Dome wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be.

  In getting to the old exit, it had proven all but impossible to keep the families together. There were stragglers among the elder members, and children slowed the procession down so that it took much longer than he had planned just to reach the old airlock.

  The airlock was set in the great, curving wall of the Old Section’s outer rim. It was huge, and although they had known about it for hundreds of years, the Dhogs had never attempted to use it. But Bogney was determined to use it now.

  He had the Dhogs gather before the outer door—the inner door of the lock had long since been dismantled and carried off for scrap—and with great ceremony lifted his bhuj into the air and waved it in a circle over his head. Two dozen of the bulkier Dhogs fell upon the opening mechanism at once. The ancient works resisted their best attempts; so the Dhogs took up long fibersteel struts and began levering the door open.

  They worked themselves into a sweat with the effort, and in time heard a great sigh as the door’s brittle seals cracked and gave way. The portal fell outward with a tremendous crash, its upper wheels sheared off.

  What happened next could only be described as disaster. The Dhogs were treated to a rude revelation as they met Empyrion’s volatile atmosphere. For Bogney it was doubly worse, for not only was it excruciatingly painful, but rolling around on the ground made him lose dignity in front of his people, not that anyone noticed.

  Eventually the effects of the nasty surprise wore off. And no sooner had they regained their composure than they heard a most unsettling sound: an ominous, droning thunder which seemed to pervade all of Dome. Frightened and still groggy, the Dhogs scooped up their belongings and hustled through the portal out into the green hills of Empyrion.

  They had not trooped far, however, when they were arrested by the sight of the Fieri fleet circling high above them, skimming the uppermost peaks of the crystal mountain range. That, combined with the fact that they actually had ventured outside and lived to tell about it, and the mind-boggling reality of unlimited vistas and far-distant horizons, combined to halt the exodus. They were overcome.

  The Dhogs stood flabbergasted and watched the colored balons circle, their engines roaring with power, thunder booming down to them from crystal canyons.

  Then it happened. Dome collapsed.

  There was a horrific cracking sound and terrible rifts appeared, streaking down from the topmost peaks and mounds. The entire edifice wobbled for an instant, and then plunged inward upon itself.

  The Dhogs’ first reaction was to run back into Dome, which was familiar to them. But Bogney was successful in preventing this; he forbade them entrance to the crumbling bubble, turning them instead to the valleys beyond, where they watched the destruction from a safe distance. When it was over, they crept from their hiding places to look upon the shattered remains of their former home.

  Bogney was at a loss to explain what had happened, but figured that the mysterious airships had to be of Fierran origin. He called the family heads together and explained to them that they no longer had any need to walk to Fierra. He pointed to the hovering spheres and declared, “Fieri be coming for Dhogs. We now be going to Fierra.”

  The Dhogs accepted this as reasonable, and they all went back to explain to their families, whereupon the multitude sat down and waited for the second stage for their exodus.

  That was how the balon found them, sitting with their bundled belongings and livestock, ready and waiting to be taken to Fierra.

  Bogney approached the craft as the ramp slid down. He stationed himself at the foot of the ramp to greet the Fieri. When the pilot appeared, Bogney held up his bhuj and said, “We being great glad to see you, Fieri man. Big thanks you coming here for us to get us. Dhogs ready. Let’s go.”

  Tvrdy and a contingent of armed Tanais conducted Mrukk to Nilokerus Hage and proceeded to the Cavern level security cells. The groggy Nilokerus stared in disbelief at Mrukk and his captors. One word from Tvrdy, however, and they began opening the cells and setting their prisoners free.

  “Now then,” said Tvrdy, pushing Mrukk toward the communication console, “you’re going to contact all those interrogation kraams of yours. Tell your men it’s over. Any attempted reprisals will bring death.”

  Mrukk stood immobile. “Tell them!” yelled Tvrdy. “Tell them now, or I’ll turn you over to your own prisoners.”

  The Mors Ultima grimaced and leaned over the console. Tvrdy flipped some switches, opening all channels. Mrukk spoke gruffly into the microphone. “All Mors Ultima squad leaders, release your prisoners. This is a special directive from Commander Mrukk. All prisoners are to be released at once.” He straightened and stepped back from the console. “Satisfied?”

  “No. Now we’re going to begin closing down your network. We’ll visit each Hage and make sure your orders are obeyed.”

  “My orders are always obeyed,” sneered Mrukk.

  Just then, the first of the prisoners began emerging from the corridors. They saw the Nilokerus standing in a clump with Tanais guns on them, and Mrukk with his hands tied behind his back and a bloody bandage on his shoulder.

  One of the prisoners, a Jamuna with a battered face and eyes swollen nearly shut, fearlessly approached Mrukk and spit in the Mors Ultima leader’s face. Other prisoners witnessed the act and rushed forward.

  Tvrdy quickly intercepted them. “No more!” he told them. “It’s over. The killing is over.”

  The prisoners, revenge gleaming in their dull eyes, muttered and stepped away. “Put the Nilokerus in the cells for now,” Tvrdy ordered several of his men. “The rest of you come with me.” He pushed Mrukk before him, and they left the cells to begin their tour of Jamrog’s torture chambers.

  Pizzle and Cejka, along with several Rumon soldiers, made their way to the Archives. Diltz remained silent the whole trip, staring sullenly ahead as the ems made their way through the lower-level streets and corridors.

  They arrived at the Archives level and forced Diltz to open the succession of sealed doors. Upon entering the Archives, they found the stubby missile already aboard its carrier and crawling toward the Archives’ huge outer doors, which were open. The magicians, wearing atmosphere helmets and oblivious to the destruction visited on the rest of Dome, were trundling the aged weapon toward the doors.

  “I don’t believe this!” shouted Pizzle. “They’re getting ready to launch that thing!” He rushed across the floor which had been cleared to accommodate the missile, and grabbed the first magician he came to by the throat. “Stop it!” he screamed. “Turn it off!”

  The magician made a movement with his hands, and Pizzle was thrown backwards through the air. The Rumon rushed forward to Pizzle’s aid. The other magicians, Nilokerus and Saecaraz, turned to stare at the scene. They raised their hands, and the Rumon went down in a heap. One magician advanced to stand over them, putting out his hands to keep them pinned down.

  Cejka fired his weapon at the foremost magician, who averted the blast but was slammed back into the missile by the force of the blow. Pizzle regained his feet and dashed for the missile. He reached it and tore open the hatch on its side before he was again lifted off his feet and flung back.

  “Stay back!” cried Cejka and loosed another volley at the magicians, pushing two more back before the weapon was jerked from his hands by the psi force the magicians wielded.

  Diltz saw his chance and hit Cejka with a body bloc
k that shoved him down the steps to the Archives floor below. “Launch the weapon!” he screamed. “Launch it at once!”

  The magicians looked at one another blankly.

  “No!” hollered Pizzle. “Don’t do it!”

  Diltz flew down the steps and scooped up Cejka’s weapon. “I am Supreme Director!” he yelled. “Obey me. Launch the weapon.”

  The magicians, wearing their atmosphere helmets, could not understand what Diltz was raving about. They simply stared at him and exchanged puzzled glances. “Don’t you understand?” he screamed. “I am Supreme Director now. I order you to launch the weapon! What’s the matter with you? Do as I say.”

  Pizzle saw what was happening. “Ha!” he shouted. “They’re deaf with those helmets on. They can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

  Diltz frowned. “Shut up!” He strode up and slapped a magician’s helmet. “Take off those helmets! Take them off! I order you!”

  The magicians hesitated. Diltz put down the weapon and took the helmet in his hands, gave a sharp twist, and lifted it off. The others pulled their helmets off as well, and Pizzle watched the surprised expressions appear on their faces. Eyes starting from their heads, they clawed at their throats and sank to the floor to thrash in agony.

  “Now!” yelled Pizzle. The Rumon scrambled to their feet. Pizzle ran to the missile, which was still creeping slowly toward the open doors.

  “You tricked me!” screamed Diltz. He stooped to recover his weapon and, raising it, leveled it at Pizzle and pressed the pressure plate. The blast went wide as Diltz’s knees buckled and he pitched forward. Momentum carried Cejka over the top of his victim. His hands found the skidding weapon, and he whipped it around.

  “I should kill you, Diltz,” growled Cejka.

  Diltz groaned and writhed on the floor.

  “How do we disarm this thing?” called Pizzle. “Hurry! I don’t think we have much time.”

  Two Rumon hauled Diltz to his feet and dragged him forward. “You heard him,” said Cejka. “Disarm it!”

  Diltz stared back defiantly. “Disarm it yourself!”

  Cejka slapped the Nilokerus across the mouth. “Disarm it now or I will kill you.”

  “I don’t know how,” Diltz spat. “They do.” He jerked his head to indicate the unconscious magicians. “Tell them.” He laughed, a creaking sound from the tomb.

  “We’ve got to stop it,” said Pizzle. The missile had reached the threshold and was moving out under the landing platform. “My guess is that it’s set to go off once it clears the platform.”

  There was a grinding sound, and the missile began raising slowly up in its cradle. “It’s going into firing position! We’ve got maybe two minutes.” He raced to the missile again and peered into the hatch at the welter of blinking lights and dials. There was a row of buttons, all lit green. As Pizzle watched, one by one, they all blinked red. He heard the whir of the internal timing mechanism inside.

  Cejka joined him, saying, “I know nothing of this type of weapon.”

  “Get one of those magicians over here,” said Pizzle. “Hurry!”

  Cejka signaled to the Rumon, who began trying to rouse the magicians.

  “It will be a few minutes yet,” said Cejka. “We can’t wake them.”

  Diltz put back his head and laughed—an evil, hateful sound.

  “I’m not going to let this thing launch,” said Pizzle grimly. “I won’t.”

  “What then?”

  Pizzle drew a hand over his sweating forehead and, still gazing into the hatch, his face lit by the blinking lights, took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to start pushing buttons. I might get lucky … Then again, I might set the thing off right here.”

  Cejka did not flinch. “Do what you must do. Traveler.”

  “Here goes nothing,” said Pizzle. He whispered a prayer and reached into the hatch. With a quivering finger he pushed first one button and then another. The lights continued blinking and the dials pulsing. “It’s a sequence arrangement, I’m sure, but I don’t know the sequence.”

  The missile had crawled far out beneath the platform. Pizzle could see the far edge of the upper canopy coming nearer as they approached. He began pushing the buttons and flipping switches indiscriminately, but to no avail. The missile with its atomic warhead, now in launch position, moved ever nearer the predesignated launch site.

  Pizzle dashed back inside and went to a magician. He picked the insensate form off the floor and shook it. “Wake up!” The man’s head lolled and his tongue bulged from his mouth. He let the body slump back to the floor. “It’s no use. I can’t stop it.”

  Diltz laughed hysterically.

  Pizzle raced back to where Cejka stood watching the missile as it cleared the edge of the platform. The carrier stopped.

  “It’s going to launch!” yelled Cejka.

  “Here, give me that thing!” shouted Pizzle, snatching the thermal weapon from Cejka. He ran to the missile, raised the weapon, and aimed at the hatch. He closed his eyes and pressed the pressure plate with his palm.

  Sparks and hot metal shrapnel erupted around him. He stood his ground and kept firing into the missile. There came a rumble, and the missile shuddered.

  “It’s going to launch!” cried Cejka.

  “No it’s not!” Pizzle threw himself forward and reached into the blasted hatch. He grabbed a handful of wires and pulled. There was a sizzling noise, and the missile rocked in its cradle twice and was still.

  “You did it!” yelled Cejka, running up to pound him on the back. Behind him the Rumon burst into cheers. “You stopped it!”

  Pizzle staggered back as relief burst over him. He rubbed his dripping face with his hands and sighed. “Man alive!”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  The next three days were, as Mathiax had predicted, extraordinarily hectic. There was aid to be administered, order to be established, and a whole new epoch in Empyrion history to be inaugurated.

  Sadly, there were a multitude of casualties, scores of which were beyond hope of recovery—although not as many as Talus and Bohm had feared. Most of Dome’s inhabitants, it seemed, had been huddled in their kraams in deep Hage, hiding from Invisibles who were seeking victims for their interrogation and torture quotas. Or they were near enough to a sturdy Hageblock to run for cover when the sky-shell began to shatter and break up. Still, there was great sadness amongst the rescuers as they buried the bodies of innocent Dome dwellers who had been killed by the shattered crystal.

  When the natural, vital air of the planet came roaring in, replacing the eternally recycled sterile air of Dome, the effect, while terrifying and unspeakably painful, was not actually harmful in any lasting way. The populace was instantly rendered helpless, if not altogether docile.

  At first, survivors wandered dazedly through the ruins of their world, muttering incoherently, lost and forlorn, dazzled by the light of an unfiltered sun. But when they finally understood that the Fieri had come to help them, that Jamrog’s nightmare reign was over, and that their lives could only get better as a result of the collapse, their spirits improved radically.

  On the fourth day, reinforcements arrived from Fierra: three more balon fleets filled with Fieri volunteers led by Mathiax. The new arrivals came with supplies and heavy equipment to begin tackling the monumental clean-up operation.

  For the architects of the new order, the days sped by, every minute crammed with emergencies large and small and with decisions of all kinds about nearly everything. The whole society of Dome—which wasn’t really Dome at all anymore—had to be reorganized. There were innumerable positions of leadership to fill, and countless functionaries to appoint. Not to mention a herculean rebuilding project to orchestrate.

  But by the end of the second week, the wheels of the newly formed provisional government were firmly on track, and the rescuers were able to relax somewhat. Talus announced that they would celebrate their victory with a dinner where they could all sit down together.

  They assembled
in Tvrdy’s kraam, which had come through the apocalypse most intact, and shared a simple meal, prepared and served by the Fieri. After dinner, and a succession of souile toasts, they mingled and talked about the future.

  When Talus, Tvrdy, Mathiax, and the others began discussing, as they had been all week, various options of organization for the new government and the kind of ongoing aid its leaders would require, Treet excused himself and joined Yarden, who had wandered off to sit by herself in a far corner of the room. It was the first real opportunity he’d had to talk to her alone since her arrival.

  “Here’s to the future,” he said, raising his glass. He sank down onto a cushion beside her.

  Yarden regarded him over the rim of her cup. “The future,” she said a little wistfully.

  “What’s the matter? Having second thoughts about saving me?”

  “It isn’t that. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

  Treet laughed. “You certainly have a unique way of showing it.”

  She bent her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that … well, I’ve got a few hard decisions to make.”

  “Such as? Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  Yarden took a deep breath. “A few of the balons are going back to Fierra day after tomorrow. I think I’m going back with them.”

  “So soon? I thought you’d stick around a while.”

  She shook her head gently. “I’m not needed here. What I came to do—it’s finished. I’d only be in the way from now on. Besides, I’ve got my own life to rebuild. I’ve got my art, and—” She hesitated, glancing up quickly. Treet saw the light come up in her eyes and knew that it wasn’t for him that it shone. “There’s no way you could have known about that—so much has happened …”

  “You’re right. I’ve missed out on a lot.”

  There was a small, awkward silence then, and Yarden changed the subject. “You know we found Crocker?”

  “Pizzle told me.”

  “And Calin—how did she die?” Treet looked away. “It might help to talk about it. She was my friend; I’d like to know.”