The enio’lo was a condition of their stewardship, decided long ago by the leaders among the Sullurh—a word that meant “Those Who Stayed” in their ancient language. For long after the other Ariantu left, aliens began to visit and settle on Kirlos—only a few at first, then greater numbers. And many of them, the K’Vin in particular, had been at odds with the Ariantu. So the only way to survive was to lie low, to assimilate, to encourage the genetic drift that had already made them appear different from their forebears, and to perform the tail-severing ceremony.
But as much as they had changed outwardly, the Sullurh were still Ariantu at heart. Fiercely proud, watching over their race’s greatest possession—its farthest flung world when its empire was great and glorious. Protecting it against the ravages of mercantile invaders as best they could and in the only way available to them—by insinuating themselves into the power structures of the alien cultures that had come to take over the planet.
Assimilation had meant hardship—and sacrifice. And when Lektor and his companions had had trouble sitting in Thul’s chairs, it had reminded him of just how great the Sullurh’s sacrifice had been.
However, his visitors had been gracious. They had overlooked the size of his furniture. Indeed, they had overlooked all of the differences between Thul and themselves. Lektor himself had declared that it was of no account who had stayed and who had gone. The time had come for the Ariantu to regain their former splendor—and the Sullurh would have their rightful share in it.
In fact, Lektor had informed him, the Ariantu had already come a long way toward rebuilding their culture. But their people longed for Kirlos, the soul and the emblem of what they had once been. The memory of it had gotten into their blood, had become a crucial and necessary factor in their empire’s resurrection.
Thul had found himself nodding. Yes. Of course. That was what the Sullurh expected, what they had worked for decade after decade and century after century.
However, Lektor had told him, the recovery of Kirlos would not be an easy task. It could not be accomplished by military might alone, for together, the Federation and the K’Vin were too strong. No, it would be necessary to employ subterfuge—to divide and conquer.
And that was the reason the four Ariantu had come. To sow the seeds of dissent and distrust. To pry the Federation loose from its holdings here, so that only the K’Vin would be left to face their ancient enemy—an enemy once again as strong as the Hegemony or stronger.
But to do this they would need the help of the Sullurh. The Ariantu had no way of influencing the Federation and K’Vin ambassadors; but Those Who Stayed, over the long years, had earned the ambassadors’ confidence. Finally, all their hard work could find a purpose.
Thus, it was decided. The Ariantu—Lektor and the others—would devise the plots of sabotage and assassination. Thul, as leader of the Sullurh subcommunity, would work with Gezor and Zamorh to bring about chaos and conflict between the embassies.
Toward what end? To pave the way for the arrival of the Ariantu fleet, which would soon return to reclaim the gem in its crown of worlds. Nor, once it set out, would there be any contact or coordination with the fleet—not with both embassies routinely monitoring planetary communications. It would be blindly dependent on the Sullurh’s success.
But their plans had gone awry. The ambassadors had stubbornly resisted all efforts to pit them against each other; Stephaleh had been too slow in calling for an evacuation of her sector.
And so, when the Ariantu fleet arrived, it encountered a Kirlos that it could not easily bend to its will. The Sullurh had failed in their efforts—efforts they had begun a long time ago, before they ever had an inkling of what would come of them.
All for nothing. It was a bitter pill to swallow.
Then Thul had stumbled on the way out of their difficulties—the knowledge that would place Kirlos in Ariantu hands once more, despite the failure of their original plan.
And the irony was that the Enterprise officers had led him to it. He had allowed himself to be subdued along with them and imprisoned, so as not to give away his alliance with Lektor’s group.
At the time the Sullurh had already known that their plan was doomed—that the fleet would arrive before their efforts came to fruition. But it still seemed to Thul that by keeping their alliance a secret, the Sullurh could still be of use.
How right they had been, Thul remarked now to himself. How very right.
For if he had not been imprisoned, he would not have accompanied Data and Geordi in their escape. And he would never have found the legendary omega level.
Lektor’s residence was just ahead, on the other side of the street. He crossed over, headed for it—scarcely able to contain himself. This news would make up for everything. It would redeem the Sullurh and restore their right to share in the new empire.
The female was in front of him before he knew it. He had almost collided with her before he saw her and, seeing her, noticed that she was pregnant.
What’s more, he realized, he knew her. He had performed the enio’lo on her daughter only a year or so ago.
“Master Thul,” she said, reaching for his hand out of respect. It was plain that she was frightened, what with all that was happening.
“No time now,” he said, speaking in short, staccato bursts. “Too busy to stop—sorry.”
And with that, he sidestepped her and continued up the street. Perhaps, he told himself, if all goes well, that baby of hers need not undergo the enio’lo as her sister did. With any luck, it will keep its tail.
Strangely, that seemed a sad thought. The rite had been a badge of shame among the Sullurh, a denial of their heritage, at least to the outside world. But in a way, the Sullurh experience, including even the enio’lo, had become a heritage in itself.
The thought was lost to him as he descended the steps to Lektor’s flat. He knocked on the door—four times, so that they would know who it was.
At first there was no answer. Finally a strip of light showed beneath the door. It opened.
Not Lektor, but Eronn. The Ariantu looked down at him. After a moment, he indicated with a gesture that Thul should enter.
A little cold, the Sullurh mused. But that will all change when I tell them what I found.
They made their way down a short corridor, turned left into a small room. Lektor was sitting inside, along with Naalat. Pirrus was apparently out somewhere.
“Thul,” said Lektor, rising. Only here, in the privacy of his residence, could he let his visage go uncowled. His eyes, dark red—almost maroon—presided over a short snout filled with a predator’s pointed teeth.
How different from the average Sullurh, in whom each of those characteristics was only a faint echo. And yet they were brothers, descended from the same ancestors, spurred by the same instincts. Weren’t they?
“We escaped,” said Thul, underscoring the obvious. “Or rather, the Enterprise officers did, and I came along.”
Lektor nodded, his eyes narrowing. “I see. They have returned to the embassy, then? With their knowledge, now certain, that Gezor is our tool?”
He made it sound as if Thul should have prevented it somehow. Or was that the Sullurh’s imagination?
“Two of them have gone back to the embassy,” he answered. “The third, the Klingon, is still in Gregach’s grasp.”
Lektor exchanged glances with the other Ariantu. No words, just glances; Thul wished he could communicate that way, as his ancestors must have.
“But there is other news,” he blurted. “Good—no, great news.”
That got their attention. Thul took a deep breath before beginning.
“To make good our escape,” he explained, “we had to delve deep into the gamma level—so deep, in fact, that we found a level below it.”
“Below it,” repeated Lektor.
“Yes,” said Thul.
The Ariantu did not respond as he had expected. They looked at him, at one another—but there was no excitement evident in th
eir expressions. No more than in Data’s face, or Geordi’s, when they had noticed the conduit.
Then it came to him. Perhaps the spacegoers had not nurtured the same legends as the Sullurh. Perhaps, removed by time and distance, they had forgotten some of them.
“Have you never heard of the omega level?” he asked. “Of the secret that lies within it?”
“We have heard,” said Lektor—a bit dryly, it seemed to Thul. “Just as we have heard of the stars that steal unruly younglings, and the never-ending feast enjoyed by warriors in the afterlife. Legends, all of them, with no basis in fact.”
Thul shook his head. “No. You have been away too long—you cannot know. The omega level is not just a legend—it exists. And it holds a way for us to achieve victory—even now!”
But the Ariantu were unmoved; they put no credence in what he said. Worse, they were looking at him as if he were deranged.
“I saw the place with my own eyes,” insisted the Sullurh. “I saw weapons—powerful blasters. What more proof do you need than that?”
Lektor shrugged. “So there’s a lower level, and it contains some weapons. That doesn’t mean it contains the weapon—the one the legends prate on about.”
Thul was stunned. How could they refuse to even investigate? He put the thought into words.
“It is simple,” Lektor answered. “With the ship here, matters will proceed quickly now. We must make ourselves continually accessible to those above, which will leave us no time at all to pursue a Sullurh’s fantasies.”
A Sullurh’s fantasies. The phrase emphasized the distinction between the spacegoers and their Kirlos-bound cousins. Not mere fantasies, or empty fantasies, but those of a Sullurh—as if Thul’s beliefs were somehow worth less than those of Lektor and his kind.
And this time, he assured himself, it was not his imagination. The slight, if unintended, was nonetheless real.
By the same token, however, Thul found himself reassessing his faith in the omega level. He couldn’t help it. The Ariantu were so knowledgeable, so experienced . . . by the gods, they traveled the stars! And he, like all Sullurh, had been tied to Kirlosia all his life.
Could it be that they were right? That the omega level had never existed—except in the lore of Those Who Stayed? That what he had found was only some backup life-support facility, or something even more mundane?
But the weapons . . .
No. As Lektor had been quick to point out, that was not proof either. Any ancient Ariantu facility would have had weapons handy; after all, they were a warlike people.
It was hard to accept it all, especially after his excitement at discovering the place. But in the cold light of reason, Thul had to admit that Lektor’s view might be the correct one.
Still . . .
It was then that Pirrus returned. He hardly acknowledged Thul’s presence, so eager was he to report to the other Ariantu.
“There is chaos everywhere,” said Pirrus, his exertion barely evident in his voice. The Ariantu, Thul had learned, hardly ever got winded. “The populations on both sides are pressing their embassies to surrender—after all, they haven’t a prayer of standing against our ship. But the ambassadors have sequestered themselves.”
“And what of the ship itself? Has there been any word from our brethren?”
Pirrus shrugged, his bushy mane creeping up around his ears. “None. Apparently they are still adjusting to the situation.”
Lektor snarled deep in his throat. It was a sound that Thul had never heard him make before, and for that reason—though not that reason alone—it was startling.
“Then we wait,” he said. “They will send us word when they need us.” He looked at Thul. “You, too, must wait until those in the ship decide what to do.” His eyes hardened. “But you cannot wait here. Go back to your house; we will send for you.”
Thul almost asked why he could not wait there. However, he told himself, Lektor had enough on his mind without having to explain to him what his motivation might be in every little thing. So he let it pass.
“Very well,” said the Sullurh. “I will be there when you need me.”
Lektor nodded, once. Then he turned away and muttered something to Naalat, and Naalat answered, and they were engrossed in the making of some plan that concerned only them.
Thul left, emerging into the Kirlosian night with a feeling of unreality in his stomach. He felt . . . unnerved. And not just by the fact that his hopes regarding the omega level had been dashed. The greater shock was the ease with which Lektor had dismissed them.
More and more, he was forced to see that the differences between the Ariantu and the Sullurh were often greater than their similarities.
And it disturbed him that this should be so.
Chapter Seventeen
A SHIP APPEARED in space where moments before there had been nothing but vacuum.
The corona of a nearby white dwarf flared. Fiery tendrils lifted up from the star’s surface and twisted wildly, thrown into disarray by the disruption in the fabric of space.
Darting closer to the star, the scout released a signal and waited.
A tightly packed cluster of ships burst into space, then dispersed in a radiating star pattern. The largest vessel lay at the center of the fleet; it was surrounded and protected by eight fighters that formed a shield around the heart. But one of these ships assumed its outlying position too quickly and without thought; it crossed through a feathery plume of the white dwarf and was consumed by fire.
Arikka curled a lip to show her displeasure at the report of the loss, but the scoutmaster only flicked his ears. At least his eyes were respectfully cast aside. Baruk might not be cowed, but he was not so brave as to meet her gaze, even on a viewscreen.
“These navigational charts are ancient,” he said. “Stars have drifted from their designated positions.”
“What good is a nose if it can’t sniff danger?” Her tail arched in contempt, fur bristling outward, but unfortunately Baruk could not see it.
“Rorrul was too eager. She didn’t wait for my warning signal before moving her ship.”
“Then you didn’t signal fast enough,” replied Arikka. “It’s your job to warn the paac of trouble in time for us to change our path.”
Baruk lifted his chin to bare his neck. In accepting her reprimand, he brought discussion to an end, so she moved on to a practical redress of the situation. “Since your senses are so dull, you’ll serve better as the tail.”
Arikka felt some satisfaction in seeing her grandson shudder with humiliation at the reassignment, but the demotion would not bring back the burned ship or its dead crew. Rorrul’s kin had been eager hunters, well suited for the flank position that served as an extension to the main paac. After some thought, Arikka promoted Howul from the belly to the scout position and shifted the remaining ships to cover his vacancy. No one would replace Rorrul, just as no one would replace the ship that had been destroyed days earlier.
Her own heartmaster, Teroon, transmitted the orders without argument, but when the communications with the other shipmasters had ended, he turned to her and said, “That was harsh punishment, Mother. We’re new at this; errors are to be expected.”
The control cabin was small and cramped for space, but the astrogator and the pilot were too absorbed in their work to eavesdrop. She revealed her misgivings. “Baruk didn’t make a mistake. He made a fast kill.”
“I thought we left our feuds behind on Ariant.”
“So did I,” said Arikka, ruing the loss of the ships almost as much as the kin they carried. “Yet my family, not my enemy, shrinks before my eyes.”
All the worldly possessions of her paac had been sold or bartered for the fleet of twelve fighting ships. Her family could not afford even the most decrepit cargo freighter, but these ancient remnants of the Ariantu empire-builders were too small to be of commercial use and were sold as scrap. Under her direction, that scrap had been restored to its original purpose.
“Ah, well,�
� she sighed. “At least this treachery shows spirit.”
Her hand moved to the talisman that dangled on a chain around her neck. The chip of unpolished stone was rough-edged and raw, like her paac. She had not birthed any effete artists who could carve and polish arizite into a form fit for the marbled halls of the High Paacs of Ariant. Nevertheless, those noble families were still on the home planet grubbing in their fields while she soared beyond the stars. Arikka and her kin were the true spiritual descendants of the ancient Ariantu empire-builders; she would fashion her descendants into a new noble paac. And they would prove their prowess by sinking their teeth deep into K’Vin flesh.
K’Vin. The very utterance of that name was like a choking bark of combat. The K’Vin had dared to take up residence on what by rights was Ariantu territory—but Arikka would avenge that festering insult.
No High Paac noble would dare condescend to her ever again. Instead, they would crawl in her presence, with tails dragging in the dirt.
“Signal the paac. We jump to Kirlos next.”
Teroon grunted with surprise. “So soon, Mother?”
“Yes, before my children destroy themselves with their petty bickering.”
Arikka would have preferred to put them through additional maneuvers, additional drills. Aside from providing her with a High Paac pendant of arizite, the attack on the quarry planet had been meant as a taste of real battle for those who had only listened to tales of ancient glory. Who could have guessed that the settlement lacked any weapons with which to defend itself? The single fleet casualty had occurred because two fighters crossed paths just as a weapons salvo was released. Another convenient accident. Despite the ease with which it had been carried out, the victory had left her feisty offspring feeling cocky. Much too cocky. They needed a tougher target to teach them some humility—and give them a few wounds to lick.
But when Teroon had pored over the star charts, searching the branching network of shunt coordinates for an exit near a planet with modest defense capabilities, there had been no suitable targets that could be reached in less than a week. And since each day’s delay gave her children time to remember old planet-born rivalries, to turn on each other again, she was forced to move on to their ultimate destination sooner than she had planned.
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