The Dark Ascent

by Walter H Hunt

  "But they didn't expect to be mixed up in a war."

  "Neither did I." The Sultan looked across the crew, now discussing the subject with some animation. "But you can't indemnify against it; they're here at the ass-end of nowhere for the same reason you and I are, Skip: to make money. Without the help you got from the Navy in the first place, they'd never have made the bundle they've made already."

  "All true, Chief," Dan said.

  "So why would they trade being dirtsiders for a chance at being part of a profitable operation when this is all over? Like you said, we're not going to be in the front line—how tough is this going to be?"

  You have absolutely no idea, Dan thought. Of course, it might not be any safer off the Damsel.

  Jackie, what the hell are we getting involved in?

  "Is that the consensus among the crew, Chief?"

  "I'd be surprised if you lost anybody, Skip."

  While the discussion continued aboard the Fair Damsel, Georg Maartens sat alone in his cabin, sprawled in an armchair, his jacket tossed onto one of the chairs opposite. He let his arms hang over the sides of the chair and his eyes were shut; anyone coming in suddenly, would've thought the old man was asleep, but he wasn't—he was merely deep in thought.

  What the hell are we involved in? he repeated to himself. What kind of war can we fight?

  It wasn't Maartens' job to decide, of course. Fighting these aliens wasn't going to be like tangling with pirates or suppressing a colonial rebellion—the only types of conflicts he had experience with. On the other hand, the incidents at Cicero a few months ago had given him insight that was lacking in all but a few others in his position. There were only a handful who knew what was out there . . . including Jackie Laperriere, he reminded himself.

  Wherever she is.

  How do you fight an enemy that can change its appearance . . . that can take over your mind . . . that's way ahead of us technologically? The Admiralty hasn't let out information about the enemy, hasn't even admitted there is an enemy—just "an emergency."

  He remembered an interview with Admiral Hsien, Maartens' new boss after leaving Cicero. The old man had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not—repeat, not—to discuss what happened there, since there was still a court-martial investigation going on. That wasn't the real reason, of course. Aside from McReynolds, who knew more about what was happening across the line than he'd been willing to admit, Maartens hadn't discussed Cicero with any of the other merchanter captains now under his command. He was leading them into . . . what? Their next destination, Corcyra, had had a naval research center, but now it was nothing but a ruin. There, most of them would get their first look at what the enemy could do.

  He wasn't expecting to find survivors; but if there were any, his Sensitives would have to poke around in their minds before he'd let them aboard his ship. Cicero had made him paranoid. What would happen to squadrons led by commanders who were less suspicious, because they didn't know what they were facing?

  As Maartens sat there, his eyes closed, thoughts racing through his mind, he realized the war had a good chance of being over even before it had begun.

  Chapter 2

  WARRIORS OF THE PEOPLE IN THE VALLEY OF LOST SOULS TRAVEL ON THEIR ERRANDS; THE DESPAIR OF THE DECEIVER SETTLES ON THEIR WINGED SHOULDERS LIKE A LAYER OF FINE, GRITTY DUST. THOSE AT THE OUTERMOST EDGE WHO ARE MOST CAPABLE OF MOVEMENT AND THOUGHT, CANNOT HELP BUT RAIL AGAINST THE LORD ESLI WHOSE ABANDONMENT OF THEIR SOULS TO THIS PERDITION IS CLEARLY IN ERROR . . . IT CANNOT BE OTHERWISE: AS WARRIORS, DOES NOT THE WORLD REVOLVE AROUND THEM? THE DESPAIR OF ESGA'U GROWS HEAVIER AND HEAVIER AS THEY BROOD UPON THEIR FATE, UNTIL AT LAST THEY SEEK THE SOLACE OF THE CENTER WHERE MOVEMENT ENDS AND THOUGHTS FIND THEIR REFUGE IN OBLIVION. THERE ARE TWO WAYS TO ESCAPE THE VALLEY OF LOST SOULS. ONE WAY IS VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE: AT THE CENTER IS THE PERILOUS STAIR THAT ASCENDS THE ICEWALL TO THE FORTRESS OF ESGA'U, BUT ONLY THE RAREST HERO CAN LIFT HIS HEAD TO SEE IT.

  THE OTHER, NEARLY AS UNLIKELY, INVOLVES SELF-NEGATION: RECOGNITION THAT EVEN THE GREATEST WARRIOR CAN BE REDUCED TO NOTHING IF THE EIGHT WINDS BLOW A CERTAIN WAY, OR IF ESLI WILLS IT. STRIPPED OF EGOCENTRICITY, A WARRIOR CAN FIND A NEW INNER PEACE WITHOUT SUCH FEELINGS. IT IS A RARE TRANSCENDENCE: ADMITTING THAT CONTROL OF THE SITUATION BELONGS TO SOMEONE ELSE—OR, PERHAPS, TO NO ONE. IT IS JUST SUCH A CHANGE THAT SAVED THE PEOPLE FROM SELF-EXTINCTION WHEN ESHU'UR CONQUERED THEM THREE GENERATIONS AGO. EVEN FEWER WARRIORS CAN ASCEND THE PERILOUS STAIR. THOSE THEY LEAVE BEHIND CAN ONLY ESCAPE BY PIERCING THE ICEWALL.

  —Ke'en HeU'ur,

  Ur'ta leHssa and the Icewall,

  saLi'a'a Press: esYen, 2314

  He remembered a starship hurtling across empty space. It approached in his peripheral vision, coming closer and closer and then striking him, impossibly, sending pain through every receptor. Then there was another instant of blinding pain from the other side, driving him into unconsciousness.

  He could still see that ship flying at him, end over end, in slow motion. He had all the time in the world to trace its trajectory back to the origin . . . And trace it he did, watching it retreat like a vid image until it came to a halt in an upright position on a shiny, reflective surface.

  Hands were around it in his mind's eye: two meat-creature hands, one of them bearing a circle of bright metal on one finger.

  Two hands.

  An Academy ring.

  Suddenly, in the depths of wherever he was, he knew whose hands they were: They belonged to Georg Maartens, the captain of the Imperial starship Pappenheim.

  Running the vid slowly forward . . . ever so slowly, so he wouldn't have to feel that pain again . . . he watched as Maartens picked up the ship, a heavy model of the Pappenheim itself, and flung it at him. He'd been distracted somehow—he'd turned away in meat-creature form to the door, to face Dante Simms, the Marine commander of the Pappenheim—and the model had hit him on the side of the head.

  Where am I? he thought; followed immediately by, Who am I?

  The first question had no answer. It was dark here, wherever "here" was: It might be a vat of g'jn-fluid to regenerate whatever parts he might have lost when . . . when—

  The second question had an immediate response. You are N'nr Deathguard, he heard in his mind. That is the most important fact. You are of the Ninth Sept of E'esh, he added to himself, placing it at a distance, a color-change behind the first one.

  N'nr Deathguard.

  He knew where he was now—or at least what his current status must be: a prisoner of the meat-creatures, caught in their k'th's's somehow. It was impossible but it must be true nonetheless. The walls of his n'n'eth seemed intact, so his mind was unbreached; he didn't know how long it had been since the meat-creatures had struck him unconscious, but he must still be so. This emerging series of thoughts was clearly deep within his i'kn-mind, so whatever means had been used to keep him unconscious was beginning to wear off.

  Soon, very soon, he would know where he was. If his i'kn-mind was beginning to function, his waking mind would emerge within a few vx*tori . . . all he had to do was wait.

  He didn't have to wait very long. He became aware of minds in his vicinity: primitive, but still possessed of k'th's's—and too many to idly Dominate, particularly in his weakened condition. He let one eye open slightly, and saw a chamber. It was dimly lit and disturbingly square, with a higher ceiling than was comfortable; even his time aboard the starship Pappenheim, during which he'd accustomed himself to human habitation, had not completely eliminated his natural aversion to open spaces.

  So. This was likely a zor habitation. That explained the k'th's's, then—the winged servants had far more powerful abilities than their wingless masters. It wasn't an encouraging thought—it meant they were aware of the threat he posed. His presence here also meant that the Pappenheim had escaped the digestion of Cicero.

  To confirm his supposition, he saw two of the egg-sucking meat-creatures enter his field of vision. They were speaking in the Highspeech; something was
interfering with his ability to pick up stray surface-thoughts, so he was at a loss to understand what they were saying—except that it was likely about him.

  One of the zor turned to face him. "You have awakened," it—he—said in Standard. "We have much to discuss."

  "'Discuss'?" he managed to croak. "I have nothing to say to you, m—"

  "'Meat-creature.' Yes, I know. Let us presume that we will dispense with the preliminary insults. My name is Byar HeShri. I will forbear addressing you as 'Servant of Despite,' and you can withhold your own pejoratives as well. Agreed?"

  Byar HeShri took up a perch near where he lay. He opened his other eye and swiveled his head around to take a good look. He was lying on a large cot in some sort of examining room—an elaborate sickbay aboard a base or ship. He was physically unrestrained, but some sort of weak force field was being projected around the cot: It was like a hive-ship's defensive field, though obviously much weaker, but enough to disturb his k'th's's and prevent him from seizing this one's mind . . . though the winged servant did seem to be powerful in his own right.

  A tiny amount of fear began to form on the outside of his thorax. He wanted to extend a tentacle and wipe it away, but he didn't want to call attention to it.

  "You have left me little choice in the matter."

  "There is always choice." The zor rearranged his wings. "For example, you may choose to cooperate with me and explain the objectives of your people . . . or you may choose otherwise. As you spent some time in the guise of a naZora'e, you might believe there may be some hesitation in extracting that information by force—but do not deceive yourself.

  "You are far too dangerous for half-measures; you are also far too dangerous to be allowed where you might be rescued or left unguarded. Almost no one knows that you are even alive or in captivity."

  "My own people know."

  "I do not believe that they care very much about you at all," Byar answered. "From what we have been able to learn, there is a very low tolerance for failure among your people. And make no mistake . . ." The wings moved to another position. "At least for the present, you have failed. Cicero is in the possession of the enemy, but everything that could be removed from that place is beneath a safe wing."

  "Except your precious sword," the alien answered immediately. "And you have chosen some egg-sucking zor warrior to try and fetch it back."

  The zor's wings moved again; the alien thought it might possibly be in amusement, but had no way of being sure.

  "Something of the sort."

  I suppose there was no way to have avoided this becoming a media event, the High Chamberlain thought as he made his way through the closed-off terminal. Those privileged enough to have access to this part of A'alu Spaceport gave T'te'e HeYen a wide berth as he flew slowly and purposefully along, followed by his retinue, staying—as protocol required—two wing-lengths behind and one below. As the High Chamberlain went by, those he passed dipped their wings respectfully, assuming postures that communicated respect, awe or fear, in about equal proportions—all conveying what the situation required; all more or less ignored by T'te'e as he flew his path.

  At the edge of his peripheral vision he noticed a 3-V camera crew tracking his movements: Without directly affronting him by close physical approach, they had deliberately invaded his vague sense of privacy—and some of his postures and expressions would be on the comnet a few sixty-fourths of a sun from now.

  In an earlier time he would have cursed the crew to travel the dark paths of the Plain of Despite, but that seemed to be altogether too close and painful now; instead, he simply altered his direction slightly to stare directly at the crew-captain, whose wings had been arranged to convey a polite but justified defiance: I have a right to be here, it said. An equal right to your own.

  At the High Chamberlain's glance, however, the anonymous tech looked away quickly, settling his posture into one of greater politeness.

  That is better, T'te'e thought to himself. But the pleasure in winning the insignificant conflict was shallow, and the High Chamberlain despaired to think just how little his dignity meant anymore.

  The spaceport named for the legendary first High Lord A'alu had grown to span a substantial area on Zor'a's main continent. A century ago, when the People were at war with the naZora'i, much of the activity at A'alu consisted of military craft; the Navy had commandeered several of the spaceport's terminals for its own use, arranging access-paths and lines of sight to make them inaccessible to civilian travelers. The traffic patterns around A'alu had been altered significantly to accommodate this usage, and in more than eighty years they had not completely shifted back.

  After arriving in Zor'a System, the High Chamberlain had arranged for the shuttle to land on a field serviced by one of these terminals. He had come down to the surface separately and quietly, so that he could fulfill the ceremonial forms.

  He perched on a narrow platform overlooking the field through a huge trapezoidal window. Below, the officials and press people were gathered, keeping an eye out for the approaching vessel. From time to time, one or another would ascend to get a better view, always careful to stay well below the High Chamberlain's level.

  Some amount of irritation and impatience had already set in when the shuttle appeared on the flight path. T'te'e changed neither stance nor expression (cameras continued to record him, moment by moment), while the attendees below burst into a hubbub of action. The great glass window prevented any noise coming in from outside, but the High Chamberlain's contemplations were interrupted by a fluttering of wings nearby; he turned to see Byar HeShri, Master of Sanctuary, coast gently to a landing beside him. The Sensitive teacher placed his wings in the Stance of Courteous Approach and waited for T'te'e to speak.

  The High Chamberlain gestured to an aide who drew out a privacy-field cylinder and activated it. The slight humming that emerged was barely audible to the People on the platform but effectively masked the area outside it from prying microphones or attentive ears. Four of the liveried attendants placed clawed hands on their chya'i and began to make slow rounds of the elevated platform.

  "I am pleased to have you nearby," T'te'e said at last, not looking away from the window, where a distant point of orange grew more and more distinct. "But your studies and preparations are surely of more importance."

  "I wanted to see what we have wrought."

  T'te'e turned to face him. Anger was scarcely repressed in his eyes. He did not allow his neutral wing-position to alter. "This is not of our making, se Byar. Were we not old friends and companions, I would feel it necessary to enforce that point with my chya."

  "Eight thousand pardons," Byar answered, as his wings shifted to the Posture of Polite Indifference to emphasize the irrelevance of his apology. "Let me rephrase."

  "Please do."

  "This flight had no alternative but to come this way. esLi Himself alone knows how it shall end, but the gyaryu would be gone by this time. It is remarkable that the old man is alive after having lost it . . . but he knew the risks, as did we."

  "Make your point."

  "ha T'te'e, you know—as do I—that if the Gyaryu'har is not able to speak for himself, it is you who are answerable. So it is, with heroes: they must face the consequences of their actions, good or ill."

  "Are you suggesting . . ." the High Chamberlain began angrily; but Byar HeShri simply raised his wings in the position of the Cloak of esLi.

  "I suggest nothing except to assure you, Respected One and old friend, that you cannot cloak yourself with pain and guilt because our old friend returns in this condition. We knew that it was to happen. He is already lost to us, likely beyond all hope to recall. The People will have to do without a Gyaryu'har for a time. It is a blessing that they at least have a Chamberlain."

  "That will not reassure them." T'te'e spread his hands, gesturing at the throng below, jostling and fluttering for a clear view of the incoming shuttle.

  "It does not matter; we also lack the gyaryu. That will disturb
them even more." Byar examined his claws, looking away from the troubled—and troubling—gaze of the High Chamberlain. "Can you tell me anything of what progress has been made in getting it back?"

  "se S'reth was here an eightday ago. esLi's Chosen One ascends the Perilous Stair alone, accompanied only by her spirit- guide. si Ch'k'te HeYen is beyond the Outer Peace now," he added, watching Byar's wings elevate briefly in surprise as Byar connected the last two sentences and drew the same conclusion he had drawn when S'reth had first told him. "The esGa'uYal know that the avatar of Qu'u still lives, and they have accelerated the pace of their attacks—as I am sure you are aware."

  "Based on what I have begun to learn from the esGa'uYe we have in our custody, they understand less than you might think. But yes, Sanctuary is cognizant of this. Without our advance preparations, in fact, we would be far worse off . . ." He turned to look at the incoming shuttle, visible now, a glowing bird of prey descending toward the landing-field. "Still, you are aware of the stakes: Without the gyaryu to protect us, there will be little chance for Sensitives to withstand what is certainly coming. Without the Sensitives, there will be no Circle within which to stand."

  "I am aware of that," T'te'e replied wearily. "I have no control—"

  "That is the problem, ha T'te'e, is it not?"

  "What?"

  "That you have no control."

  "I am not one of your students, se Byar. For a second time you come dangerously close to touching my honor. I let the first indiscretion pass. Are you seeking a confrontation?"

  "No, I am not. Of course I am not. What I am seeking is your admission that this affair is no longer under the control of anyone." And he leaned on the word with additional emphasis. "Certainly not yours."

  "What purpose does this 'admission' serve?"

  "It pierces the Icewall, old friend. It pierces the Icewall."

  T'te'e held the gaze of the Master of Sanctuary for several moments. To anyone watching, it would have seemed as if the two powerful Sensitives were engaged in a contest of wills; indeed, in their heightened state of Sensitivity, they could pick up stray thoughts from unprotected minds nearby: What did the old one say to him? . . . the blade of ha T'te'e is singing, I can hear it! . . . Perhaps they are subvocalizing, maybe the lab techs can pick up something from the recording . . .