“Then she returns, spouting even more wild allegations. They serve no purpose. Worse—they actively impede any progress we might make toward ascertaining the truth! Word about today’s ‘exercise’ could just as easily have spread by means of ordinary Human spies and hyperspace communications. There is no need to hypothesize beyond that. All we have to do is look for those spies and the problem will be solved. But no, instead we’re off in search of phantoms, while the very real enemy continues to work among us!”
“Not any more,” said Nemeth. “The five she helped us locate were clone warriors. There is no doubt of that.”
“I don’t dispute this,” said Trezise. “But how many more might there be, that she hasn’t told us about? We have only her word that the ship is now clean.”
“There has been no overt move against us—”
“Yet.” Trezise turned to Esko Murnane. “And you! Bad enough that Assistant Vice Primate Nemeth should already have wasted so much of the council’s time—but you had to give him more. You encouraged this ‘exercise’ which has brought the entire Sol System to war. Do you call this progress? Thousands are dying every minute!”
Trezise turned to address the council as a whole. “I call for a vote of no-confidence in the leadership and guidance of Esko Murnane and Rey Nemeth!”
Roche understood, then, why Trezise had asked for her to appear in front of the council.
She glanced at the Heresiarch, who was watching the proceedings with a frown. The crowd was unsettled; she heard confusion and anger in the mingled voices surrounding her. How a no-confidence vote would go she couldn’t guess, but the fact that it had been called was bad enough. Even if it failed to get rid of Murnane or Nemeth, it had placed Trezise firmly in the minds of the councilors, and it would disrupt normal proceedings for some time.
This was his chance to seize power, and he wasn’t going to waste it. He wasn’t interested in her testimony one way or the other. She was just a tool to help him get what he wanted.
She was being used yet again—and the worst thing was that she had to go along with it. Regardless of who ran the council, it was still her best chance to do any good in the system. She knew the ship was clear of the enemy, and she also knew that whether Cane was himself telling the truth, he was still their best hope of learning anything new about the enemy.
<1 understand. Give me a minute.>
Roche returned her attention to Trezise. His expression was guarded, outwardly restrained, but she could see the delight behind his eyes. He was pleased with his work, was relishing the growing dissent about the room. The council wasn’t entirely on his side—but he had upset the balance; he’d had a direct effect on its mood. Where Nemeth had been simply power-hungry, Trezise looked like he was enjoying the disruption purely for its own sake.
Murnane tried to quiet the crowd, but to no avail. There was too much tension in the air now for it to be so easily quelled. Even when Nemeth added his voice to the call for calm, the racket continued. Trezise took a step back and smiled openly at the chaos.
Then a single, clear chime cut through the noise. A Heterodox officer ran through the crowd to talk to the Heresiarch, whose face instantly became grim.
The bell chimed a second time. As the Heresiarch headed for the adytum, the officer came to the font and spoke to Murnane. Roche wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said, even though the noise of the crowd was finally ebbing.
After the third chiming of the bell, Murnane stepped forward to address the council.
“We are under attack,” he said simply. “The Heresiarch has been called to attend to the vessel. This meeting is therefore adjourned until the emergency is past.”
The crowd erupted once again, thousands of voices shouting out in a mix of fear and anger. Robed officials stepped into the fane and moved among them, trying to get the people to head toward the exits. Roche saw scuffles break out in a number of places.
She tried to call Kajic, but a precautionary scrambling system was in place.
A hand came down on her shoulder. “We should leave,” said Cane.
She looked around. Haid, Maii, and Vri were being herded toward an exit on the far side of the fane, and the containment team was closing in around the font.
“You go back to the ship too,” she told Cane. “You’re not a prisoner. They’ll take you there and let you go.” She directed the words at the leader of the containment team, who nodded. “Wait for the others. I won’t be long.”
Cane hesitated for a moment, then nodded and was led away by the squad of soldiers.
Roche approached Murnane, who stood, looking stunned and confused, with one hand on the font supporting him. Trezise was arguing loudly with him.
“This is exactly what I said would happen if we allowed Exotics into the council meetings! We’ve become caught up in someone else’s dispute!”
“Our ftl drones are being destroyed across the system,” Murnane said. “This is a coordinated assault, not a random skirmish.”
“All the more reason to resolve this issue now—”
“No!” Then, more calmly, meeting Roche’s eye, Murnane said: “I don’t think talking will resolve anything anymore.”
He turned and walked away. Trezise glared at her, then followed.
Roche was at a loss for a moment. She had hoped to find out how she could help, but the fane was rapidly emptying. Nemeth had gone with the others. The only ones remaining were a handful of Exotics trying to get closer to her, and a ring of guards around the central area keeping them at bay.
“Roche!” Vischilglin’s voice echoed in the emptying space. “What are you still doing here?”
Roche turned to face the tall woman who had breached the ring of guards and now stood on the far side of the font.
“I don’t know,” said Roche. “I feel like I’m missing out on something important.”
Vischilglin came closer, until she reached the font Then she did as Murnane had done during the first council meeting Roche had attended: she dipped her hand into the water and sipped it.
“The Heterodoxies say it brings clarity of thought,” she said, wiping her hand lightly on her robe. “Something we could all use at the moment.”
Roche nodded, willing to accept the superstition but not to indulge it. “There’s nothing
for me here,” she said. “I should get back to my ship.”
“I’ll take you,” said Vischilglin.
“No, that’s all right. I can find it.”
“Please,” she insisted. “I have little else to do while the warriors blunt their swords on each other.”
Roche acquiesced, and was led out of the fane via the same exit Murnane and the other senior councilors had used. It opened onto a series of featureless white corridors that could have come from any center of bureaucratic power anywhere in the galaxy—a far cry from the streams and valleys she had witnessed on her first trip to the fane.
Thankfully, Vischilglin seemed to know where she was going. She said nothing as she guided Roche through the warren. The only sounds were the soft pad of her footfalls, almost entirely drowned out by the heavy footfalls of Roche’s combat suit.
Roche didn’t respond. The news wasn’t good. With two fleets now engaging the Phlegethon, the possibility that more might join in was very real. How long the Skehan Heterodox could last against a sustained assault she didn’t know—and she didn’t want to have to find out the hard way, either. She just wished there was something constructive she could do to ease the situation.
Instead, she was stuck in a warren, led by a woman whose silence was starting to make Roche nervous.
They turned a corner. Ahead was a row of doors that suggested elevators or some other intraship conveyance like the one they had used on her first visit. Vischilglin took her to the nearest and pushed a button. The door opened with a hiss and they stepped into the small capsule. Vischilglin selected a destination and the doors hissed shut again.
Roche didn’t know why Vischilglin’s behavior was bothering her. All she knew was that there was something odd about her, something not quite right....
Although she hadn’t felt the capsule begin its journey, she did feel it decelerate. Before it could come to a halt, Vischilglin tapped something into the pad by the door, and the capsule coasted a second before recommencing its braking.
Roche didn’t give herself time to think. Her combat suit was sealed and a weapon in her hand just as the capsule slid to a halt.
“Any sudden moves and I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger,” she warned Vischilglin, her voice booming via the helmet’s speakers into the confined space.
The woman’s eyes widened. “How...?”
Then the doors opened, and Roche saw the welcoming party intended for her: five tall figures dressed in a mixture of spiky Hum armor and robes, all with weapons raised and aimed directly at her.
“Put the weapon down, Roche,” said one. “You can’t possibly hope to fight us all.”
She hesitated, ready to fire. They all had heavy-duty rifles, and she didn’t dare doubt that they were all equipped with armor-piercing ammunition. If she so much as raised a hand, they would cut her down where she stood.
The lights went out. In the same instant Roche dropped to the floor and switched to infrared. Her welcoming committee was slow to respond, giving her the few precious split-seconds she needed to get out of their sights. She took one robed figure in the throat and another in the hip before any of them returned fire. When they did, the elevator exploded with light. Vischilglin’s scream was short-lived.
Roche used the suit’s attitude jets to propel herself along the floor. Sparks flew from her stomach-plating as she fired at another of her attackers. The first two she had shot were down but still moving. The armor of the remaining three was tougher; the third one she hit barely flinched.
Their heat-images were turning to follow her. She scrambled to where one of the fallen figures lay and wrenched the rifle out of its grasp. Rolling, she fired at the other three. The recoil of the rifle took her by surprise, even through her suit. One of her attackers flew backward into a wall. The two others split up and darted away.
She took the opportunity to look around her. In infrared, the scene was confusing. Airlocks glowed red with flashing lights above them; floors, walls, and ceilings were lukewarm gray; energy from the shots splashed the area around the elevator with bright swaths of white-yellow. Her attackers were green-blue on either side of her, trying to pin her between them.
She turned and ran as fast as the suit would allow her.
Something red flashed in her implants to her left: another elevator. She headed toward it. Energy flashed past her and blossomed on a far wall: her attackers were firing at her. She crouched to decrease her profile, dodging as much as she could without lessening her speed.
She switched to visible light for a second to judge the distance. The elevator doors hung invitingly open, barely fifteen meters ahead. Yellow light shone from between them. Gunfire flashed past her again, and she realized that she was silhouetted against that light, giving her assailants a perfect target.
Something smashed into her from behind, throwing her forward, sprawling. Pain exploded in her right shoulder and back. She skidded helplessly along the floor, moving fast enough to reach the elevator but missing the doors by a meter and crashing heavily into the wall. She tried to move, to stand, but her suit only whined ineffectually at her. She could smell ozone and smoke and burning blood.
Lots of blood.
Someone was running toward her with a rifle trained on her stomach. She tried to raise her own weapon, but her hands wouldn’t respond. Her attacker came closer, slowing to a cautious walk. The weapon’s aim didn’t waver for a second.
One of the other suited figures appeared, asking, “Did we get her?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” said the first. “Call the others. We’re going to need help getting her on board—and make sure the surgeon is ready!”
The other nodded and turned away. The first suited figure approached closer still, until it was an arm’s length away. Reaching out with a boot, the figure tapped Roche on the chest. She could do nothing but grit her teeth on the pain.
The light spilling out of the elevator seemed to be fading.
Somewhere in the distance—or perhaps from deep inside her—she thought she heard a voice calling her. A girl. She knew she should respond, but she didn’t have the strength.
In the fading light, the first figure crouched on one knee beside her. “Morgan Roche.” It was a woman’s voice. “At last.”
Roche had barely a second of consciousness to realize that she knew that voice.
Then a wave of darkness broke over her and took her with it.
PART FOUR:
THE CRESCEND
16
HIC God’s Monkey
955.2.14
1380
Page De Bruyn watched closely as three Disciples carried Morgan Roche into the Hum cruiser. Roche’s face was red-lit through the blood-spattered visor of her damaged suit, painted oddly by warning lights and alarm signals from within. She was very pale beneath the blood. De Bruyn caught herself thinking that Roche was lucky to be alive—although from Roche’s point of view, “lucky” was hardly the right word.<
br />
They hauled the injured woman through the cramped, convoluted crawlspaces of the ship and placed her on the autosurgeon’s table. Cutting devices flared as they stepped away. Something in De Bruyn’s stomach dropped as the cruiser disengaged from the Phlegethon and accelerated into the battlefield, broadcasting clearance codes to ensure their safe passage. De Bruyn waited anxiously for any sign of attack, but none came. The besieging fleets ignored them as the Disciples had assured her they would.
Bit by bit, Roche’s suit fell apart down her right side, exposing the woman within. De Bruyn was surprised at how small she was, but supposed that was only in contrast to the sheer bulk of the suit. They were approximately the same height, and De Bruyn was taller than most men she knew. Or maybe it was just Roche’s vulnerability that made her seem so small—lying there now, finally, helpless and alone. Without her crew of freaks around her, she wasn’t as impressive as the rumors would suggest.
Roche’s body was covered with gore. The shot had taken her low in the right shoulder and gone straight through her, leaving a hole easily a hand’s-breadth wide. Shattered bone, torn muscle, and liquefied organs filled the hole. Blood still pulsed weakly from it, even through the cauterized ends of veins and arteries. De Bruyn could have pushed her hand through the mess and out the other side had she wanted to.
But the torment could wait. The important thing for now was keeping the woman alive. It was inconceivable that Roche could have survived such an injury. She should have died on the spot.
Hissing and licking sounds emanated from the autosurgeon as it went to work on Roche. De Bruyn faced the Disciple who had fired the wounding shot.
“You’re very fortunate,” she said quietly. “Had she died, I would have killed you myself. As it is, you’ll just be disciplined.”
The Disciple paled, but bowed in deference and backed out of the room. The others followed, sensing De Bruyn’s mood. She didn’t bother to hide the fact that she was displeased, even though the mission had, in almost every respect, been a success. But the Disciples didn’t respond as well to reward as they did to punishment.
The Dark Imbalance Page 27