"They concluded that the gyaryu had to be placed at risk somehow, but did not determine the way in which it could be done. At Sanctuary I had another prescient experience, linking the gyaryu with a young warrior whose face I did not know."
"Ch'k'te."
" . . . Yes." Th'an'ya wavered again. "I can sense your anger, se Jackie, for I know that you know what happened next. Yes, I did seek out Ch'k'te, who had just recently come into his Sensitive powers, and who was a young, impressionable warrior . . ."
"You used him. Like I'm being used."
"You are so quick to judge." Her wings settled low on her back, indicating sorrow. "When I perceived what I thought to be the hand of esLi in this affair, I assumed that li Ch'k'te was to represent Qu'u. Still, I beg you to believe that I loved him."
"How much did you see, Th'an'ya? How far down in time did you perceive? Did you see your own death—and his? If you hadn't made him a pawn in this terrible game, he'd be alive now." Jackie's fists clenched. "How dare you talk about love."
"You understand us so little. You mind-linked with li Ch'k'te and felt the depth of his feelings for me, and you must sense that I tell you the truth about how I felt about him . . . Feel. Neither you nor I—even in present form—can ever know what flight li Ch'k'te might have taken, had I not sought him out as my mate. Yet I think that our cle'eLi'e—our 'mating'—strengthened his own hsi abundantly and made him strong enough to be the Ch'k'te that you knew."
"And loved," Jackie whispered.
"It is difficult for you to admit that."
"Of course it is—especially since I could never tell him." Jackie felt her voice growing husky and thick, and frowned. "Damn it, things used to be so simple, and now they've gotten so blasted complicated."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Love is a difficult emotion; it seems that your many human languages only make it more difficult." Th'an'ya's wings assumed an almost reverent position. "That you are not one of the People and yet were thrust into the impossible position of acting the part, makes all of this difficult to comprehend. I did love li Ch'k'te . . . and yet he was destined to play a role in 'this terrible game,' as you put it. I thought that he would become Qu'u, and so gave him most of my hsi."
"What does that really mean?"
"It means that . . . what was left behind, was only an 'image' of me. It functioned but was only barely a Sensitive. Given time, the hsi might well have been strengthened, but . . ."
"Did you . . . Did your death come about as a result of giving so much hsi to Ch'k'te?"
"I have no way of knowing, since this hsi-image"—Th'an'ya gestured to herself—"was not present at the moment of my physical body's death. I suspect, however, that the answer is yes."
"So you killed yourself to make him strong—and he killed himself to save me."
"There I think you err. I did not transcend the Outer Peace to make li Ch'k'te strong: I was flying the path that esLi had marked out for me. Similarly, Ch'k'te's death has meaning in the context of allowing you to continue holding the Outer Peace; but he died primarily for himself, se Jackie. In the greater scheme of things, his end was completely fitting, as he destroyed the object of his dishonor: that thing which had condemned him to life."
"You make suicide sound like an art form."
"Just so. To one of the People, the style of death is high art. You humans have an exceptionally parochial view of life and death, treating them as two essentially different things. They are merely different forms of the same thing. For example: Into what category do you place me? Am I alive, or dead?"
"Dead. But I see what you mean. How do you classify those unfortunate trillions who were not so clever to insert their hsi into unsuspecting mates?"
"If they are of the People, I classify them as within esLi's Circle of Light. It is they whose wisdom and Inner Peace make it possible for some of our race to be poets, dreamers, artists . . . and, of course, Sensitives."
"esLi . . . is the composite of the People that have gone before? Is that a common belief?"
"Of course, se Jackie. We believe esLi to be the possessor of all the hsi of our race, since its beginning. It is the hsi that guides all of us, from the High Lord to the simplest warrior. It is for this reason that one of the People feels it so important to maintain the Inner Peace: to retain his honor. To become idju is not merely to suffer the contempt of one's own people, but to be separated from the guidance of esLi Himself."
Jackie took a sip from her drink and pushed aside the mostly eaten tray of food. "You . . . said that you saw this path when you were at Sanctuary; or, rather, that you dreamed of Ch'k'te"—she felt her emotion rising, and took a deep breath to fend it off—"in connection with The Legend of Qu'u. You sought out and found him, mated with him and gave him a large portion of your hsi. What happened after that?"
"What I know, subsequent to that, is only second-wing information and conjecture, se Jackie, since this hsi-image was submerged from the time of our cle'eLi'e until the moment when li Ch'k'te summoned me forth during our mind-link on Cicero. But I will seek to reconstruct it for you.
"After my death, li Ch'k'te grieved greatly for me and sought transfer from the naval service of the People to the Imperial Navy. As a distant clan-brother of the High Nest this was easily effected. Eventually he was posted to Cicero under your command. I cannot say for sure, but I can believe that the High Nest arranged to place him there."
"Then, Ch'k'te's posting to Cicero was no accident."
"Certainly not. The High Nest knew, or rather sensed, that there was something about to happen beyond the edge of the Empire; it also sensed that Cicero was at—or near—where the event was to occur. As the High Lord's madness progressed, the inner circle of the High Nest began to make preparations for the quest to be undertaken, se Sergei, the Gyaryu'har, was sent to Cicero when it became apparent that the sword should be placed into the possession of the enemy."
"Someone from the Envoy's Office explained that se Sergei had been sent to Cicero, but I never realized how far back it went . . ." Jackie stared into her drink-cup, looking at the face gazing back at her. "But, if all these people—including Noyes!—believed that Ch'k'te was Qu'u, how did I get mixed up in all of this?"
"I would conjecture that the esGa'uYal believe that Qu'u must be one of the People, since only a warrior of the People would be willing to transcend the Outer Peace to fulfill the Law of Similar Conjunction," Th'an'ya responded.
"Further, I could simply say it was the will of esLi. Even now, you might find that insufficient—insulting, even. I cannot describe in Standard why I recognized your hsi as that of the returned hero, but I knew it from the outset; even li Ch'k'te knew it, when you linked on Cicero. I chose to transfer my hsi to you at that time; my intuition was confirmed when you fought Shrnu'u HeGa'u during the Dsen'yen'ch'a. I helped you create the hsi-images with which you fought him; and he, too, saw . . . that you would fly the path of Qu'u.
"That ordeal was clearly painful for li Ch'k'te. He learned that I had moved my hsi into your mind. Like most Sensitives, he did not believe this could be done. He considered the idea of a hsi-image residing within a naZora'e mind as even less possible. When we spoke, in your quarters on Adrianople Starbase, I explained to him that despite my love for him, I existed for a specific purpose: to aid the avatar of Qu'u in regaining the gyaryu."
"What must he have thought of me after that?"
"For a time I am sure he was angry at his fate—but you must believe that he had great respect and affection for you. You should not diminish his memory by thinking he resented your role, or his own."
"Did he resent your role?"
"He never really knew my role. But on the Plain of Despite, he was able to lift up his gaze."
"You think so." Jackie stood up, carried the tray to the disposal and tossed it in. "You think he was a true hero?"
"By all of the metrics we apply, yes: Ch'k'te was a hero, and his hsi now resides with the Lord esLi."
Jackie didn't speak fo
r a moment. She leaned on the counter, facing away from the Th'an'ya-image still standing by the table. Jackie felt tension and emotion trying to overwhelm her as she stood there. She half expected Th'an'ya to have disappeared, when at last she composed herself and turned around, but the zor was still there, her wings arranged in a formal posture.
"It's getting easier to maintain that image," Jackie said to her.
"As we get closer to the gyaryu, it is only to be expected. You have become much stronger as a Sensitive, se Jackie, and your connection with esLi has grown."
"But I'm still not one of the People, and never will be."
"You say those words as if an apology were required. It is clear the wisdom of the Lord esLi is greater than our own, and He has chosen a human to be the agent of His will.
"You accepted the risks—you know the stakes. The High Chamberlain se S'reth—and even the servants of esGa'u—accept you as the avatar of Qu'u. As do I . . . as did li Ch'k'te. We must move on from that point."
"Where? Where do we go?"
"Consider this." Th'an'ya's wings moved through several positions, as if she were trying to decide on a direction. "The esGa'uYal have what we seek. It is clear that the closer you come to the gyaryu, the more your Sensitive talents manifest themselves; therefore you will have to rely upon signs of that increase, to locate it."
"I just wander around until my Sensitive talents tell me where the gyaryu is? Surely the aliens will know I'm coming and will be guarding the sword rather closely."
Th'an'ya's wings assumed the Posture of Polite Resignation: For a moment Jackie was painfully reminded of Ch'k'te. "You are right, of course," Th'an'ya answered, and it was clear she wasn't really answering the question.
"They could be waiting for me when we come out of jump."
"Perhaps. We have no control over that, but I cannot believe the Lord esLi would abandon us after bringing us this far. We can only hope that the esGa'uYal continue to await one of the People as the avatar of Qu'u and will not recognize you."
"They must know."
"The creature at the Center on Crossover Station did not know, se Jackie. If the esGa'uYe on Crossover was unable to communicate with others—and I suspect he had no time to do so—then the only ones who were aware of your identity would be li Ch'k'te, yourself . . . and the alien at Crossover. Two of those three individuals are now beyond the Outer Peace.
"This is the only advantage you—we—possess. We must make use of it. There must be information aboard this vessel identifying the alien and its role in esGa'uYal society. You must take its place."
"I wish I had such confidence in that advantage."
"Eight thousand pardons, se Jackie, but what choice do you have?"
Jackie didn't answer, since she couldn't conceive of a response. After a few moments of silence she felt Th'an'ya withdraw, unbidden, and she was alone again.
They had chosen Port Saud by consensus. It wasn't marked in the altered databases in the Negri's navcomp, as Adrianople and Corcyra had been. It was outside the Empire—and was far enough away from trade routes to be worth no one's while to claim it.
The wars with the zor, at the opposite end of Imperial Space, had made the place even less interesting. The Imperial Grand Survey didn't get to mapping it until 2372, and Port Saud hadn't been approached for annexation since then. Poor in minerals and other resources, thinly populated and far off even from freelancers' trade routes, Port Saud seemed an uninteresting target for would-be conquerors.
At least, that was the theory. Lieutenant Owen Garrett had picked the destination almost at random when they'd jumped from Center, with places like Adrianople possibly already in enemy hands. It could be a trap—but then, going almost anywhere could be a trap. Negri Sembilan had to refuel sometime, and if there were aliens at Port Saud, they might not realize the ship had been recaptured.
Negri arrived insystem while Owen was off the bridge; they were only two hours away from Port Saud Station when he took the pilot's seat. It wasn't a surprise: There really was no need for him to supervise end-of-jump, as there were a dozen crewmembers aboard with more experience than he had. End-of-jump was timed to the millisecond. Owen's special skill would come in handy later, when they reached the port.
"A pretty sorry lookin' place, if you ask me," said Dana Olivo, vacating the pilot's seat as Owen arrived. Dana was one of the Negri officers who had escaped with them from Center. "But it's acknowledging Standard comm. We're lined up for the fuel queue at the gas giant in Orbital Five, then we've got an approach for temp berthing-space at Port Saud Station."
"Just like that."
"Negri Sembilan was here eight months ago," Dana said. "They may not know Negri's current status."
"Meaning they don't know we've got it back."
"Meaning they may not even know that the bugs captured it. There's a mercantile council in charge of Port Saud. Negri is—was . . . is, really—an IGS vessel that pays courtesy calls once or twice a year."
"Do they know Damien Abbas here?"
"Sure enough. There's a merchant factor who's been a regular informant—guy by the name of Djiwara. The skipper would go stationside and visit Djiwara, toss back a few pints and get the latest gossip; he always seemed to know what was going on."
"Would he trust anyone but Abbas?"
Olivo gave Owen a look that said, roughly, How the hell should I know? "I guess," he finally said, "it depends on what story you give him."
It was a place to start. Refueled and ready to make its next jump, the Negri was docked at Port Saud Station. The station originally had been built at half the size of Cicero Op. Owen learned from the Negri's comp that the Port Saud Consortium—the governing oligarchy of Port Saud System—had bought and boosted the thing from Far Macintosh System in the early 2200s, when that world had become a Class One world within the Solar Empire and earned itself a brand-new, Navy-built facility. Given the cost of orbital insertion from the planetary surface, even an inferior orbital station paid for itself in time, and the Consortium had added piecemeal to the original, orderly, wheel-like structure so that it now resembled the legs of an ungainly insect, spread out in a dozen different directions with no real order or organization.
Owen went aboard, his engineer's mate Rafe Rodriguez at his side. Owen wasn't sure if he could protect more than one other person; also, he trusted Rafe, the first man he'd met on Center when this strange new phase of his life had begun.
He and Rafe walked up an access corridor from the Negri's berth, past stacks of cargo canisters and assorted construction materials.
"Dana's right. This station is a piece of crap," Owen remarked.
"Independent commerce in action," the big man answered. "But the universe is full of places like this. Everyone here"—he waved his hand around the wider corridor they'd entered, which was filled with activity—"is trying to make a living."
"Even in wartime?"
"I don't think it matters to them," Rafe said. "This isn't Center or Cicero. It isn't even Crossover."
"But it's still—"
"It's just a place," the engineer's mate continued. "It's been settled for more than two hundred years and it's never paid a single credit to the Imperial Government. It's never had an Emperor's Birthday celebration. Know what? They don't mind. And the pols in Sol System don't care. There are probably five hundred places like Port Saud System, and none of them is at war with the bugs."
"They're all at war with the bugs," Owen replied. "They just don't know it yet."
It wasn't hard to find Djiwara. He had offices on the main concourse, a wide-open area traversing the long axis of the station, close to the largest cargo docks. The great man himself—recognizable from an image stored in Negri's comp—was standing outside the office, engaged in an argument with another merchant. The other man was getting the worst of it, and finally gave up and, with a few caustic remarks strong enough to peel paint, he turned his back on Djiwara and stalked off. Djiwara looked quite pleased with himself as
he turned away.
"Mr. Djiwara?" Owen said.
The merchant factor trained a glare on Owen and Rafe. "J. Michael Djiwara at your service." He looked them over as if he were calculating their annual income. "Who wants to know?"
"I'm Garrett, of Negri Sembilan. This is Rodriguez."
"Negri?" His expression softened. "Where is my old friend Abbas?"
"He's . . . indisposed. He sent us instead."
"Really."
Djiwara made a great show of looking up and down the concourse, then beckoned them within his office. The room they entered was like a museum of curiosities, except it contained several rooms' worth of this junk jammed into an area no more than five meters across. Djiwara took a collection of plastic containers off of two chairs in front of his desk and gestured for Owen and Rafe to sit. He settled his own large form behind the desk.
"Thanks for taking the time," Owen said. "We—"
"Mr. Garrett." Djiwara held up his hand. "I have only one question for you: Where is Damien Abbas?"
"Mr. Djiwara, I—"
"Let me make it simple for you, Mr. Garrett," Djiwara interrupted again. "I have been in business on this worthless station for a number of years. While I have been here at Port Saud, my good friend Damien Abbas has visited more than twenty times—and each time he has sent a tightbeam message from the jump point telling me when the Negri Sembilan would dock and which vintage he would come and enjoy with me.
"Each time he has done this; each time except this one. Therefore I must assume something has happened."
Garrett exchanged glances with Rafe. When he looked back at the merchant, Djiwara had a pistol in his hand, aimed directly at Owen.
"Mr. Garrett, I would very much like to know what."
"You know," Rafe said, not moving a muscle, "some people might take that as being unfriendly."
"Not everyone is who he seems to be. You can't be too careful." The pistol remained pointed at Owen.
"That's true," Owen said. "But if we weren't who we seem to be, you'd already be in trouble, wouldn't you? I'd be willing to wager a liter of whatever swill they drink out here, that you could get a single shot off before the other one of us killed you."
The Dark Ascent Page 6