The Dark Ascent

by Walter H Hunt

  Is this—? she asked the sword.

  The esGa'uYe is gone, Sergei's voice told her.

  Fifteen minutes later, the five of them stood wrapped in towels in the farmhouse kitchen, mugs of hot tea in their hands. Kristen was muttering something about "damn fools" and military officers and their common heritage, but Don Laperriere had not lost his worried expression.

  "I didn't see anyone else there," he repeated. "You were shouting something about dreams and then the lightning hit the big umbrella-tree near the vegetable garden."

  "I thought I was dreaming." Jackie had retrieved the scabbard from her room and again wore the gyaryu at her belt. "I don't know how I got the sword into my hands—I didn't take it with me when I went out to—"

  She stopped suddenly and looked away, anger and sadness fighting for control of her expression.

  "What?" Don asked. He sat down in a big wooden armchair at the corner of the room. "What did you go out for?"

  "It was Mom," she said. Sadness won, and she couldn't keep the tears from her eyes. "Mom called out to me and I . . . thought it was a dream . . . so I went out to talk to her. She said— She said—" Her father covered his face with his hands. "But it wasn't her. It was—an old enemy, taking her form. He—it—tried to take control of me." She crossed her arms in front of her, and stopped trying to wipe the tears away. Anger came into her voice at full strength. "It was Shrnu'u HeGa'u again, Dan; the one that opened the hangar doors. Someone aboard your ship is a—vessel—for my enemy. 'You cannot kill me . . .' he said. 'And I cannot kill you.'"

  "That's why you had the sword out," Don said, looking up. His eyes were red. "You were fighting this . . . dream-thing."

  "In the middle of the night," Kristen said. "In a lightning storm. Could've gotten yourself killed."

  "I don't choose the goddamn time and place," Jackie shot back. "You don't understand."

  Kristen grabbed her by the elbow and led her into the dining-room. Jackie could see the fury in her cousin's voice.

  "You're damned right I don't," Kristen answered, whispering. "This is insanity. We have a nice quiet life here, cousin. We did when your mother was alive; we do now. We farm our land, we watch the seasons change. No magic swords, no dream aliens, no craziness in the middle of the night.

  "It had to be your mother, didn't it? The one thing that would destroy his peace of mind, get your dad thinking about the past. You had to bring up—"

  "You think I made this up? You think I'm trying to upset him? What exactly are you accusing me of, Kristen?"

  "I—I don't know." Kristen walked away from her and stood by the mantelpiece, looking out a front window at the rain that continued to fall. "Look, I don't need to be told how big the universe is, or that I don't understand it. You've told me that everything's in danger of coming apart, but I don't know what to do about that: All I know, really, is this world, this farm, this little family.

  "Your father treats your mother's memory as a precious little triptych to put on his dresser. First, Here's when we got married. Here's Grace and Jackie going to the lake. Then here we are at the Academy graduation.

  "And, finally, off on its own, here's where Grace Laperriere sleeps now, at peace at last.' They must've fought, laughed, cried, made love—all of that—but he thinks of her as a collection of memories and precious moments: a life's travelogue with no ugly edges, no hints of the unfairness of it all.

  "That's all he's got left, Jackie. You went off to space and now you're back and you've changed. That thing at your belt, that damn sword, makes you something different—something that drives you into the yard in the middle of a storm shouting about dreams. Sorry to say it, cousin, but I don't think you can stay here. Whatever happens, when you leave I have to pick up the pieces and try to put them back together, even if some big old monster is going to come along and plow me under."

  "Are you throwing me out of my own house?"

  "Since when is this your house anymore? You're a stranger here and you may always be. God willing we aren't all destroyed by what you say is coming, maybe it'll be your house again someday. But not now."

  "Dad wouldn't ever say this to me."

  "That's right." Kristen turned to face her again. "You're absolutely right. And that's why I'm saying it to you. Catch the shuttle, cousin. Go back to Zor'a. Write, visit when it's all over, but go do what you have to do. Come back when you're done."

  "If there's something to come back to."

  "If there's something to come back to," Kristen agreed, and then stepped forward and hugged her cousin. "We both love you very much, Jackie. Don't think too badly of me for telling you to go, but you must realize that I'm right."

  In her cabin aboard Fair Damsel, jumping for Zor'a, the darkness of anGa'e'ren was only a few meters away.

  Jackie had a long argument with herself, and she reached the conclusion that her cousin had been right. It was a lesson learned at great expense, but one she knew would stay with her, like it or not.

  Chapter 18

  First Talon. THE INITIAL SUBJECT OF SENSITIVE STUDY IN THE SANCTUARY CURRICULUM. IN IT, THE STUDENT MAKES THE FIRST IDENTIFICATION OF THE HSI, OR LIFE-ENERGY, THAT DWELLS WITHIN EACH PERSON, AND THE GUU'U, OR TALON OF THE MIND, WHICH CAN MANIPULATE IT.

  —Dr. Ariana Sontag,

  Dictionary of Zor Sociology,

  New Chicago University Press, 2314

  As they traveled out to the station near the jump point, Owen Garrett attempted, unsuccessfully, to concentrate on First Talon. Even with his eyes closed he could sense and hear Byar HeShri nearby.

  "Stop watching me, damn it," he said under his breath.

  "I am not watching you."

  "You're always watching me, Master Byar." Owen didn't open his eyes; he was still trying to trace the glyph of First Talon in his mind. "When we reach Trebizond you'll be watching."

  "It is why I have accompanied you."

  "So that you can see Dri'i in action. Is that it?" Owen gave up and opened his eyes to see the Master of Sanctuary looking away from him, out a viewport of the shuttle, at E'rene'e System.

  Probably just looked away, Owen thought to himself.

  "This is a talent that the People have not witnessed in many eights of turns, se Owen. I am understandably curious."

  "There's no guarantee that it's anGa'riSsa. It could be something else, something more dangerous."

  "Can you sense the presence of esGa'uYal?"

  "You know that I can," Owen answered.

  "I know that you have told me so and that you have discovered two of the creatures within the High Nest. I know that the experiences you had with Negri Sembilan and on the world Center are best explained by the talent you describe."

  "This is a hell of a time to be doubting this talent, Master Byar."

  "I do not doubt it—I am merely telling you what I know. I believe that you possess this talent, and sincerely pray to the Lord esLi that I am correct."

  If you had any hairs, you'd be splitting them, Owen thought to himself.

  "I'm so encouraged," he said aloud.

  "Your sarcasm is noted, se Owen."

  Their shuttle landed on the hangar deck of the Trebizond. It was a Byzantium-class starship, two generations out-of-date; not the sort of thing you'd see in plane-of-battle nowadays, but serviceable for IGS work. It was shorter fore-and-aft than Negri Sembilan but almost as broad, with a comparable jump range.

  "We're expected, I see," Owen said to Byar, as they stepped onto the outside lift and descended to the deck. All the officers and crew of Trebizond were on hand, waiting for their arrival.

  Eleven zor warriors followed them down, each holding a pistol in one hand, the other one resting lightly on a scabbarded chya. Whatever the High Nest thought of Owen's ability, there was no sense in taking any chances.

  Owen had read the report forwarded from Duc d'Enghien, which had come all the way back to the zor Core stars escorting it. According to Trebizond's captain, Adrianople had been taken by a pair of b
ug hive-ships. Commodore Durant, an officer Owen had heard of but never met in person, had chosen to surrender the base. About two weeks ago, the commodore had gotten word that a bug VIP was on the way, and had ordered Trebizond to take its chances.

  They'd made it through a bug-controlled refueling station and turned up at Denneva. From what intel had indicated, the captain was under no illusions: There were bugs aboard his ship—that's how they'd gotten through the intermediate stop.

  That's why Owen was here, after all. The assumption—which might or might not be correct—was that the bugs didn't know what he could do. For his part, Owen had his doubts: The bugs must have realized that he was aboard Negri when they'd got it away from Center System, and he'd been told he was being watched.

  "Dangerous," the bug had told him. "Ór . . . ordered you to be . . . watched. You were immune to the k'th's's."

  It was better for him to assume that the bugs knew about him and his power.

  "You must be Commander Garrett," the man wearing captain's bars said, saluting. "I'm Richard Abramowicz, captain of Trebizond."

  Owen saluted in return. The captain was showing unusual deference, given that he was the superior officer; he seemed uncomfortable, but that might be simply because this was an uncomfortable situation.

  "I'm Garrett, sir," Owen answered. "May I present Byar HeShri, Master of Sanctuary, my . . . teacher."

  Abramowicz stepped forward and grasped forearms with the zor, whose wings elevated slightly. Clearly the captain understood a bit about zor custom.

  "I'd like to present my crew," Abramowicz said, dropping his arms to his sides and turning to face Owen once again. "I'm . . . not sure what . . ."

  "It'd be my pleasure to meet them," Owen answered. "All of them."

  Abramowicz had no reply, but gestured to the line of officers. "My exec, Commander Kit Hafner."

  "Commander," Kit said to Owen, also saluting.

  Owen didn't reply, but tried to look studious. He nodded and thought about Damien Abbas, the captain of Negri—how he'd been taken off the bridge of his own ship and left behind on Center, and then killed arbitrarily by the folks that gave Commodore Laperriere the sword.

  It was enough to stir up his resentment at being used as a pawn, and to make him feel the anger that made his talent work. Behind, Owen heard the rustle of zor wings. He knew that, without Sensitive shields, some of his emotions radiated and could be felt by those with talent.

  He half listened as Abramowicz introduced each officer in turn; but somewhere in the back of his mind he heard another voice. At first it was just noise, but after a few moments he could hear his name being spoken.

  Garrett, it said. I know you can hear me, Garrett.

  He tried not to betray to Byar or anyone else that he'd heard anything. He was halfway down the first row now, hardly even comprehending the words Abramowicz was speaking.

  Who is this? Owen asked mentally.

  I am among the crew of this u'shn'ni ship.

  Owen didn't understand the word but got the meaning—and it wasn't complimentary.

  I'll find you, Garrett answered. When I find you, you're dead.

  It is your choice, Garrett, the voice answered. But there is another avenue open to you.

  There were four more officers left in the line; then Abramowicz would begin on the middies and warrants.

  You want to make some kind of deal? Owen frowned. Abramowicz noticed and reached a hand toward him, concerned; the procession stopped where it was. Things seemed to have become remote and soft-edged, like a dream.

  Byar's wings rearranged themselves again. The zor escorts moved forward quickly, their pistols at the ready.

  I would like to make you an offer—I would like to help you develop your k'th's's power.

  "So you can digest it," Owen said out loud. The entire scene suddenly snapped into focus.

  He looked around the hangar deck, alarmed. There was a buzz in the ranks until the exec shouted them back to attention.

  Byar came alongside.

  You can be more powerful than this winged meat-creature as well, Garrett. He cannot be what you will become.

  Owen looked across the ranks of officers and, behind them, the crew of Trebizond. They stood at attention, but he could see worry in their faces. Abramowicz looked worried, too: He didn't know what to make of this encounter.

  And what will that be? Owen asked, still searching for the source of the voice.

  There's a new day coming, Garrett, the voice continued, not answering his question. Our Great Queen has sadly miscalculated, and has only a few more vx*tori to live. Her successor . . . could use a person of your talents.

  You mean a "meat-creature," don't you? he answered. Owen began to walk down the row of officers, looking into the blur of faces—officers in the front rank, crew in the back—one after another, trying to locate the elusive impostor.

  Your talent sets you apart from the meat-creatures, the voice answered. You can resist the k'th's's of a powerful Drone: There is much that First Hive could learn from you.

  It is also obvious that the winged ones seek to manipulate you, to make you a part of their foolish mysticism.

  We can free you from all of that, Garrett.

  The exchange was only heightening his anger, making his senses more acute.

  Still, the alien voice had a point: The zor were manipulating him; they wanted to fit him into a legend, just as they'd forced Commodore Laperriere into one.

  No, Owen said at last, as much to himself as in reply to the alien. I won't replace one set of puppet-strings with another.

  He stepped between Hafner and the helm officer—he thought he remembered her name as Salmonson. They stepped aside as he moved into the second rank to stand before an engineer's mate in dress whites.

  "Nice try," Owen said.

  "You're a small-minded fool," the bug disguised as a crewman said. "The P'cn Deathguard would've found a place for you, and I came all this way to make the offer to you."

  "Don't worry," Owen answered. "You'll have a chance to answer some questions."

  "I don't think so."

  The crewman smiled unpleasantly, baring his teeth. A distant look came into his eyes for a split-second before he collapsed to the deck. A few moments later his form began to change and elongate, tearing the fabric of the uniform in several places.

  Crewmen and officers stepped back from the lifeless alien form. Owen could feel the revulsion hanging in the air, but felt distant from it.

  The words "small-mindedfool" echoed in his mind, and he wondered just for a moment if he'd made the right decision.

  "Tea, perhaps, Director likes would?"

  M'm'e'e Sha'kan turned away from the table and walked to the dispenser. Extending his upper left arm he entered a request, and an oily, bluish purple liquid oozed from the tap into a cup that dropped into place. He carried it back to the table gently and lovingly in his lower hands.

  The director shook his head as if to say, If that's tea, I'll pass.

  M'm'e'e settled himself onto a seat and took a sip from his drink. "Mmm-hm," he ventured after a moment.

  "Tell me about the new Gyaryu'har."

  "Tell?" M'm'e'e repeated. "What to tell is, I the Director little enlightenment provide can. The interview taped and monitored was, surely, and from it conclusion drawn will have been?"

  "I prefer personal opinions. As you know."

  "M'm'e'e knows," he agreed, and sipped again, extending a finger to wipe a drop of the beverage from his upper lip. "Understanding from my thinkings Director desires."

  The director nodded.

  "Clever she is. This must you consider: Though weeks only since her return passed have, already informed is she about things that during her absence transpired have. Also, about many things did she also know seem to, things from former Gyaryu'har Sergei Torrijos, old friend, have come must.

  "Yet she the former Gyaryu'har not since Cicero seen has, then in a coma was he; or not? Need to know mu
st we, what at Adrianople Starbase in zor ceremony transpired. Stipulation: Some intelligence from comatose se Torrijos to new Gyaryu'har came, before she to zor service seconded was.

  "Else how could she so well informed be? Surprising that she even rules of engagement knew, the way to obtain information much less knew, so soon to current status elevated.

  "M'm'e'e of his own abilities more confident was, before this interview place took."

  "There is another possibility."

  "Intrigued, is M'm'e'e," the rashk answered, clapping each pair of hands and then performing some sort of complex weave with them. "Please—Director will M'm'e'e enlighten!"

  "Prior to the seizure of the Cicero naval base by the enemy, Torrijos consulted with Laperriere at least once in private. We assume that the two were strangers, and that she was brought into the High Nest's plan subsequent to the attack."

  "Target of plan she was, all along; Director that must know. M'm'e'e knows, by the Three!"

  "Yes, yes, of course. But she was supposed to be unaware of it until much later." The director sat back in his chair, which conformed to his new position. "What if something passed between them when they first met? All of Laperriere's testimony—all of what happened before her disappearance, in fact—is out of harmony with her previous career. She was even tested for Sensitive talent. The test revealed nothing that would recommend her to be the next Gyaryu'har."

  "Director then suggests . . ."

  "Consider this, my friend," the director said, leaning forward again. "Let's assume that the new Gyaryu'har of the High Nest was the target of their plans from the very beginning; that Torrijos went to Cicero with the specific intent of passing his title to her.

  "For simplicity's sake, let's also assume that she was unaware of this until Torrijos arrived. Then something happened between them—on Cicero—and by the time she returned to Adrianople, she was already acting as his successor."