The Dark Ascent

by Walter H Hunt

  Barbara MacEwan heard voices in her head. They asked, demanded, commanded her to turn the Duc, now bearing down on the alien ship. But something inside her kept her from doing so.

  Another, one of the voices said. This one must die. Another will give the command.

  There is no time, said another. The voice's timbre had not changed, but it seemed to be a different personality, another alien.

  Kill it.

  Command it.

  The alien ship occupied the entire forward screen of Duc d'Enghien. Barbara gripped the arms of the pilot's chair and thought, I am going to die, but by God I'm going to take these bastards with me.

  Kill—

  Command—

  The door to the bridge slid aside and Owen burst in. He knew Captain MacEwan: interrupting the proceedings during battle would have earned a sharp rebuke at the very least. Instead, she didn't even turn around.

  No one was moving at all. Alan Howe, the ship's Sensitive, had collapsed facedown on the deck, one arm stretched out. Owen looked across the bridge until his glance reached Helm Station.

  The helmsman turned to face him, the huge bulk of the alien ship had grown to fill the screen behind.

  "You have already lost," the man said, a smile crossing his face.

  "We'll see," Owen said, and shot him.

  Jackie felt the pain recede as the hsi-images merged with her, and energy like liquid fire flowed from the gyaryu up her sword-arm into her wounded body.

  Things snapped into real time all of a sudden. Sabah—or whatever had replaced him—was pinned behind a console a few feet away, exchanging fire with Pyotr Ngo. Dan was trying to make his way over to Jackie, while Ray Li worked to put out the fire behind her.

  The gyaryu was light in her sword-hand, like a natural extension of her arm. The pain was still there, but distant, concealed, as if it had been shut inside a box.

  Knowing she had only one chance, she thrust upward with all of her strength, driving the gyaryu deep into Drew Sabah's exposed back. The point of the blade caught the overhead light as it emerged from the front of his body—

  "You—have—presumed too much," Shrnu'u HeGa'u said, leaping to the top of the parapet at Sanctuary. "You have chosen to fight the Crawler's battles."

  He raised his wings in an obscene posture, his face twisting in pain. "esGa'u'Canya'e'e!" he shouted—esGa'u will pluck out your heart with his talons—and hurled himself backward and fell, screaming, over the side of the parapet. Several seconds later, there was a terrible crunching sound, of bones breaking against rock—

  A rainbow path cascaded across the deck of the Fair Damsel, casting weird shadows on the crew. Jackie's skin crawled and the gyaryu snarled as it passed near, even as she felt the sword slice through sinew and bone. For a moment, everything was obscured by harsh, polychromatic light, and then it was gone: and so was the body of Drew Sabah. Jackie fell forward to hands and knees, one hand still clutching the gyaryu.

  In her head, Barbara MacEwan heard a horrible scream, syllables that could not be reproduced by a human voice. The grip on her mind was suddenly broken.

  "Come about!" she managed, but the helmsman was slumped in his seat and changing shape—twisting and stretching the uniform he wore as he slipped to the deck.

  Her limbs were impossibly heavy, and the hull of the alien vessel so close, that the two ships' defensive fields were discharging against each other. Barbara threw herself forward, shouldering the alien body out of the way, and played her hands across helm control, bringing Duc d'Enghien to an abrupt course change.

  It was almost too late. Fleet carriers were not made for tight maneuvering and there was hardly enough room for it; the intersecting energy fields had reached bright orange on both ships and it was impossible to shed energy and maintain them.

  Under the stress of the turn, the two starboard arms of the carrier were torn away and sent cascading toward the hull of the enemy. The forward arm creaked and buckled, but still hung at an odd angle, while the port and aft arms and sensor were torn from their moorings. Red signals showed on every damage-control panel; there were a dozen hull-breaches imminent or already happening along the length of the Duc.

  With the sole alternative the hypersaturation of her ship's fields, Barbara took the only course she could think of—one that every battle instinct contradicted: She dispersed the fields, leaving what was left of the ship's hull open to the destructive fire of enemy weapons. With whatever momentum remained, the mauled, defenseless carrier began to pull away from its collision course.

  The alien vessel was unprepared for the multigiga-erg discharge from the Duc's defensive fields, and seemed incapable of firing its weapons. Crippled for some reason Barbara didn't yet understand, the carrier maintained its forward course, hurricanes of energy tearing at its hull, until it was suddenly, blindingly, overwhelmed by it.

  At the edge of Josephson System, another new sun was born.

  In the High Lord's garden on Zor'a, Sa'a HeYen lowered her hi'chya and placed her wings in a posture of homage to esLi.

  Chapter 22

  You wanted to know, the voice said in Jackie's head. It had a tone that suggested it had been saying it for a while.

  She wasn't sure whether she was awake or asleep. Asleep, she guessed, since there was no pain in her shoulder. Somewhere in the waking world above, ships were probably still firing on each other, but there was no evidence of it in whatever state she was now in.

  You wanted to know.

  "I'll bite," she said. "What do I want to know?"

  What this was about. What effect your actions have had.

  "Fine. Enlighten me."

  Open your eyes.

  She did.

  She was in a room. More properly, it was a sort of hollowed-out cavern, brightly lit with actinic blue light. It was close, or seemed so, with curved ceilings and walls—certainly not a human or zor habitation—and it was bare of recognizable decoration, though swirls and abstract patterns on the walls changed color at regular intervals.

  A seam appeared on the wall opposite. An insectoid creature pushed into the room, followed by another, close behind. Jackie felt for her sword and didn't find it; she realized that she must be merely an observer here—a fly on the wall, she thought to herself.

  There weren't too many people who had ever seen the alien enemy in the flesh. Fewer still had heard the clacks and chitters of the vuhl native tongue; but this was the first chance she'd had to get a good look at them alive.

  Their dull-black insectoid bodies stood on four strong legs, which were jointed in the middle like human knees. Past the midsection, the aliens' bodies rose upright, with two more limbs that ended in many-fingered hands. Their heads were shaped like rounded cones, topped by short eyestalks that seemed in constant motion; their faces were largely occupied by a fanged mouth that ended in vicious-looking mandibles. Tentacles protruded from either side of the jaw, waving like streamers.

  You wanted to know, the voice said again. Now listen, and watch.

  The native tongue suddenly collapsed into recognizable speech.

  " . . . five hives completely obliterated. The Drones could not even rescue the lesser-Queens," one of the aliens said. Its tentacles waved in a circle; those on the being's underside waved as if in a strong current, first one way and then another.

  "What of the meat-creatures? They are not mind-strong," the second one said. "They have been no more than food for the k'th's's before. Could they not be controlled?"

  "They were protected this time."

  "They cannot protect themselves," the second answered dismissively. It seemed to rear up somewhat, as if bearing down on its companion. "There is nothing of resistance in them, even the strongest. The Ór promised—"

  "The Ór, the Ór. Always it returns to that, does it not?"

  "And why should it not? The Ór promised us conquest of every race we encountered—to breed, to kill, to feed to our k'th's's if we pleased. For twelve-twelves of cycles this has been t
rue. Why should it suddenly change?"

  The other alien was silent, as if it had no answer to this question.

  "Yours are the fears of a weak hatchling," the second alien continued. "Every breeze and color-change makes you mind-clouded and abdomen-clenched. Had we not shared the red stripe and silver octagon of the Ninth Sept of E'esh, you would be a meal for my k'th's's, and a poor one at that. It was some trick of the enemy—"

  "No."

  A third alien had joined them. This one was larger than the other two. Instead of being dull-black, it was shiny, with an overhue of gold. As soon as the other two heard it speak, they bent their bodies forward, splaying their tentacles and dipping their mandibled jaws toward the floor. They spoke some indefinable series of syllables, chant-fashion.

  When the chanting was over, the third alien gave some sort of gesture with its head and then exuded some clear substance like sweat from its body and rubbed its mouth-tentacles across it. It then extended these damp members to the others, who each caressed one, letting the liquid slide onto their shells.

  "There is fear in First Hive," the third alien said, after this ceremony was complete. "The Great Queen might deny this, of course, but many know it to be true."

  "Of course," the other two said in unison.

  "There are only two possibilities. One is that the Destroyer has come." This word seemed to echo ominously, as if it were being spoken down a long tunnel. All three aliens seemed to alter their postures, lowering their bodies toward the gently curving floor.

  "But if it were the Destroyer, we would know—for the Ór would be dead. The Destroyer cannot come to First Hive—or to any Hive—as long as the Ór lives."

  "But the battle—" one of the others began.

  The golden-hued one did not seem to notice the interruption, as it continued: "As long as the Ór lives," it repeated. The tentacles were completely dry now, the clear ooze having leaked completely off them onto the bodies of the other two.

  It touched the others' bodies gently, caressingly, in a gesture that seemed almost human. "The only other answer—the only logical one—is that the Harbinger has appeared."

  The aliens seemed again to lower their bodies, though not as far or as forcefully as the first time.

  "The Harbinger . . . the Harbinger is real?" the first alien said. "I had always thought—that it was a story for hatchlings. A story to frighten them."

  "That is what G'en thought. But G'en was wrong. The Harbinger has come."

  The two lesser aliens seemed to rear up then, their tentacles and body-parts waving madly.

  "Great Queen G'en . . ." one of them said—Jackie wasn't sure which—and the greater alien snapped its tentacles back abruptly, leaving brownish welts on the others' bodies.

  "No," it said suddenly, harshly. "G'en. The P'cn Death-guard occupy the k*rdn'a'a. Great Queen K'da sits upon the Seat of Majesty now." It gestured to a nearby wall, which dissolved into color and light and then focused into a 3-V scene: another alien, even more impressive, with golden thorax and abdomen, surrounded by a press of other aliens. It moved and thrashed, its body pierced by a spike several centimeters wide thrust through its midsection and extending into the air, the other aliens seemed to whirl and dance around it, occasionally nipping or pricking the obviously dying body—and smearing the liquid that emerged onto their own carapaces.

  "Great Queen no more," the greater alien said.

  "Quite a display," said a familiar voice. "Wouldn't you say?"

  Stone walked out of the darkness. Jackie's hand was near her sword-hilt—she seemed to be embodied again—and she could see the whorls and patterns of the gyaryu beneath her boots. The aliens and their brightly-lit chamber were gone.

  "Hideous," she managed to answer.

  "Oh, it gets better." He smiled. "You see, when the impaling does its job—when all of her internal organs fail, as they ultimately must—they eat her. I understand that the eyes and the egg-sacs are the most delectable, and the most sought-after."

  "This is all because of the battle. I guess we won."

  "Well, that's the proximate cause, anyway. But there's more to it than just that: You see, this whole war hasn't gone the way they expected, not at all. Cicero—Center—Thon's Well—and now this. Not to mention a few incidental things along the way. They didn't anticipate losing a single ship, particularly the five your fleet have just destroyed. Now K'da is the Great Queen, and her Deathguard—the P'cn—have replaced the N'nr. There's merry havoc all across their fleet, all across their empire, right now.

  "But as for winning the war, I guess they'll have to learn to live with disappointment. Except for poor G'en."

  "What about—K'da? Has anything changed?"

  "No, certainly not." Stone made a dismissive gesture. "She's just as screwed as the Great Queen she conspired to have impaled. Except, of course, she believes in the old tale of the Harbinger."

  "Enlighten me on that."

  "Well, to understand the Harbinger, you have to understand the Ór."

  "I'm all ears. What's the Ór?" Jackie asked.

  "Now, now, Admiral. Qu'uYar. We can't be giving the whole story away, can we? Then no one will act according to the proper motivations.

  "The Ór is a sort of advisor who has helped First Hive to the dominant position, as long as the Destroyer doesn't turn up. The Harbinger is just a precursor."

  "With the Destroyer yet to come, I suppose."

  "A palpable hit, madam."

  "Look, I'm tired of all this shit." She moved toward him, the sword in her hand, but a rainbow of light crossed her path, blinding her suddenly—

  "Whoa, hold on!" Firm but gentle hands grasped her shoulders and arms and eased her back to a prone position. Jackie opened her eyes and saw Dr. Arthur Callison, Pappenheim's medical officer, standing above her. She let herself go limp, and he let go.

  "Sorry," she said. "Dreaming." One hand reached down and felt the sword-belt: The gyaryu was still in its scabbard, solid and reassuring.

  "McReynolds told us not to try and take that away from you," Callison said. "But for the sake of my other patients, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't draw it here."

  "No problem." She moved her hand toward her head and felt the pain in her shoulder.

  Back in the real world, she thought.

  Callison picked up her other hand, holding her wrist to check her pulse. He drew in the air with his off-hand, which had a transmitter-thimble on the little finger; it left a heartbeat-pattern and a set of numbers softly glowing in its wake. "Pulse is elevated, but the BP is normal. Give that shoulder some more rest, but the wound is fairly well healed.

  "Damn, Admiral, you're going to put me out of business with those zor healing techniques." He placed her hand on her chest and patted it reassuringly—regardless of the century, proper bedside manners hadn't changed.

  "esLiDur'ar," Jackie said. "It can be taught, but I don't think I can teach it." She gently touched the bandaged shoulder; it felt more like a bad bruise than a shot from a laser. "How long since—"

  "Twenty-two hours. The last enemy ship was destroyed a few minutes after McReynolds reported that you'd been shot." Dr. Callison raised his hand as she began to frame another question. "Look, you should get some more rest. In fact, I'd suggest that you go back to sleep now. There isn't anyone in Josephson System who needs you right now; Admiral Hsien has taken the frontline ships and jumped for Adrianople."

  "Adrianople? They'll—" She sat up, felt a shooting pain in her shoulder, and slumped back down again. A wave of dizziness swept across her field of vision.

  "Hold on, there," Callison said again. "You're in no position to sit up yet . . . Yes—Adrianople. Hsien took what had survived the battle and jumped out of here—he assumed there'd be no better time to take Adrianople back."

  "He won't have . . . protection from—" She reached down, again to touch the gyaryu in its scabbard. "I can't . . ." she began again, but never quite completed the sentence.

  Later, after some
amount of dreamless sleep, she felt a hand holding one of hers. She opened her eyes to see the hand and the rest of the body attached to it: Dan McReynolds, doing a bad job of hiding his anxiety and worry.

  Pyotr Ngo stood at the foot of the bed, looking out-of-place and uncomfortable.

  "Dan," Jackie said.

  "Jay."

  "Pyotr," she said.

  "Good to see you," Pyotr said gruffly. "Glad to see you're all right."

  "You both look like hell."

  "You're not exactly Miss Solar Empire yourself. Tactful, as always," Dan answered. He let go of her hand. He reached into his pocket and produced a comp. He flipped it onto Jackie's bed. She picked it up and inched up a bit in bed to look at it.

  For a split-second, a reflection from the overhead lighting ran along the top edge of the viewer, a rainbow of light. Resisting the impulse to drop it, she touched the surface with her thumb. A 3-V display hovered in the air above the viewer: a solar system, the display slowly changing as the planets orbited the sun. A numeric display showed IGS and astrographic information.

  "What's this?"

  "I don't know. Thought you might. Our navcomp was programmed with this destination after—"

  "After you killed it," Pyotr interrupted. "Whatever the hell it was that replaced the Sultan."

  "Pyotr, I—" Jackie began, and wasn't sure what to say.

  "Look, before this goes any further, I have something I have to say."

  Jackie tensed, expecting the worst.

  "For a few months," Pyotr said, grasping the bottom railing of the bed with both hands, "I've done nothing but get in your way. I've objected, I've bitched, I've suggested that we drop you off and get the hell out of town. And I watched you kill one of my best friends.

  "—No, wait," he said, as Jackie and Dan both started to object. "No, that last one is wrong. I watched you kill something that might have been one of my best friends or might have taken his place. Whatever it was, it almost killed you a couple of times while you were a member of our crew. Now we know who it was . . .